ăsynopsis â¸â¸.áâ WEREWOLF!VI ââ .⌠"FANTASY" AU // uh-oh! you choose to ignore your girlfriendâs warning of leaving her alone for an entire week, and end up suffering enjoying the consequences of a werewolf in the prime of their rut.
á°.á tags; fantasy au (modern time/setting, but werewolves exist), breeding kink, p in v, knotting, butch!vi, established relationship, size kink (vi grows to be 7'0''..), belly bulge, mild voyeurism, biting/marking (blood drawn), spitting. MDNI!
âDonât come over, please. Itâll only be a week. Donât get mad at me if I canât answer your texts.â
Donât get mad at me, my ass. Itâs been four days since Vi, your girlfriend of three years, has left youâ again. You know how it goes by now; every six months, Vi shuts herself up in her apartment and doesnât come out. The fact that sheâs a werewolf isnât really much of an inconvenience, with the exception of how much she sheds, and this.
Is this how you two will work for all eternity? You can live without her for a week, sure, but itâs frustrating. Youâve never seen her in what she calls a rut. At one point, youâll have to.
âVi!â You call out her name as you knock on her door. No answer. You even press your ear against the wood, and nothing. Odd. Youâd think sheâd be growling, or something. âIâm coming in, okay?â
With the spare key, you slip inside the apartment and shut the door behind you. You expected a mess â a dirty kitchen, maybe some torn pillows â but, no. Itâs relatively clean, save for a box of protein bars and empty chinese takeout on the counter.
Youâre just about done kicking your shoes off by the entrance before the door at the end of the hallway creaks open. That one leads to her bedroom.
âVi?â Again, you call out her name and hope for an answer. Nothing. You advance forward, guided by the sunlight that still streams in through the windows. âListen, baby, I know you donât want me here because you fear youâll hurt me, but Iââ
Ah.
Vi stops under the arch of the hallway. Sheâs slightly hunched over, and even then, damn near touches the wood above her. Sheâs stripped down to her boxers and binding tape. Thatâs not something you havenât seen before.
The rest of her is.
Not only has she gained over a foot in height, but also what looks like to be at least twenty kilograms of pure muscle in weight. Sheâs never been one to shave, but the hair â or, fur, rather â at the base of her navel that travels south is much, much thicker. More pink tufts have sprouted along her shoulders. Longer sideburns.
Though Vi has yet to speak, you can still see the outline of the thick and sharp fangs that have grown within her mouth. Her ears, flattened to the sides of her head and pointed. Itâs a mystery to how she can even comfortably get off, considering the length and sharpness of those claws.
âI told you not to come,â The words leave Vi in a rasp as she strolls forward. In spite of her new size, she makes little to no sound as she comes to stand before you. Honestly, her size is almost absurd, but you can already imagine yourself under her; squished down onto the bed, hips raised, and her mouth over your throat as she fucks you from behind into the mattress. Will you even be able to take all of her? âAnd still, youââ
She doesnât manage to finish her sentence. Vi leans down, splaying one of her broad palms over the small of your back to press you against her frame. Her nose brushes over your throat, and she groans loudly. You donât know what sheâs just caught a whiff of, but it makes her entire spine shudder.
âYouâre wet,â Vi states, voice thick. Her other hand travels down your torso, claws catching on the delicate cashmere of your sweater, until she cups you through your jeans. Gods, are her hands big. At least twelve inches, no doubt. Bigger than the length of your fucking skull. You gasp against her ear as the heel of her palm applies pressure against your clothed clit, steadying yourself by grasping onto her broad shoulders. âI wonât be myself in this state. You understand that, right?â
You do.
Itâs not hard to see just how much Viâs pulling herself together here. Her jawâs clenched so tight itâs a wonder her molars havenât cracked. Thereâs tension in her muscles you can feel with every shift under your fingers.
âI do.â
Thatâs all Vi needs before sheâs lifting you up into her arms without so much of a grunt. Her mouth seals over yours just as your thighs hook around her waist, and her lips eagerly part to meet your tongue halfway. She mutters an apology when the tip of your tongue catches on the pointed end of a fang, though eventually moves to feast on your throat instead.
Vi stumbles backwards until she finally makes it into the bedroom, and though at the peak of her rut, is still mindful of how she throws you onto the bed. The bed is whatâs a mess.
Piles of pillows against the headboard that follow in a semi-circle along the crumbled sheets. Itâs mostly extra blankets that work as a cushion, though you do catch view of an oddly familiar pair of panties youâd lost months ago in the corner.
Viâs hands land on your hips, snapping you out of your thoughts. A groan vibrates in her throat as she raises your lower half in the air, connecting your clothed cunt with her own hidden, but very evident, arousal. Itâs almost painful, considering youâre in your jeans, but Vi makes quick work of them soon enough.
Her claws catch on your thigh from how quickly she rips the denim down your legs, and Vi soothes the sting with a lick and kiss before moving on to your sweater next. She splays her palm over your belly, muttering something you canât quite catch under her breath.
âWhatâs with theâŚ?â You trail off with a breath, leaning back against the mound of pillows and blankets. âThis.â
âItâs a nest,â Vi answers as she lowers herself, nuzzling her cheek over your neck before her mouth latches onto the skin. You canât suppress a moan as she nips and suckles the sensitive flesh, and your hands find their natural placement on her head when she pushes your bralette up to expose your breasts into the air. âInstinct, I guess. More comfortable. Good place for future pups.â
âFuture what?â You echo.
Vi groans, perhaps at the sound of those words coming from your mouth, and gives a nod. She rips your bralette in half with ease, the fabric giving away under the strength. You want to snap at her for it, but really, the sight of her thick and veiny forearms are awfully distracting.
âPups,â Vi hums into your skin, briefly lapping at one of your breasts before scooting backwards to work her way down your body. Her hands slide down your sides until they cup your hips once more, and she squeezes until the soft flesh yields between every gap of her fingers. âIâd give you a whole litter. Keep you here, safe and soundâŚâ
You know itâs just her hormones and instincts talking â probably â and choose to indulge her. Youâre not completely lost to the anatomy of a werewolf in rut.
"And you'd do that, how? Knotting me?"
Teasing Vi in this state is probably not the smartest move.
Her pointed ears flick once before she rips your panties with both hands. The torn fabric is tossed over her shoulder, and you yelp as she stands on her knees and lifts your entire lower half up. Your feet fall to the sides, leaving your cunt exposed. Much like Vi had guessed earlier, you're already wet, but that's not enough for her.
She lowers her head between your legs and spits over your mound. You shudder with a grunt, feeling as the warm glob rolls past the hood of your clit to run down to your entrance. Vi's gaze doesn't meet yours just yet, and she instead looks from her fingers to your sex. Back, and forth.
A deep whine echoes from her throat as she shakes her head.
"Finger yourself," Vi orders, glancing down at you. Her claws dig into the meat of your hips, drawing some blood. "Work yourself open for me."
"Like this?" You gesture down at yourself with one hand, a huff following suit. It's not the most comfortable of positions for you to touch your damn self.
"Like this."
But you won't argue.
You trail your dominant hand down, reaching over with your middle and ring finger to slide down to your entrance. Vi watches with rapt attention as you lubricate your fingers with the mix of her spit and your slick, and she groans in satisfaction as one of your fingers disappears into your warmth.
Maybe you donât get as much pleasure from fingering yourself as you would from Vi doing it, but the psychological aspect of being ordered and watched is another different thing. Vi usually speaks filth and praise into your ear when you two fuck, but it seems like she canât get anything beyond grunts and whines out. Her pupils expand as you add yet another finger, leaving only slim ring of her grey irises visible.
âAdd another one,â She rasps, curling her hands tighter around your hips. âYouâll need it.â
You donât have to look down to know Viâs not just being cocky about her size. The outline of her dick beneath those boxers is a little intimidating, honestly. Sheâs fucked you with big straps before, yeah, but sheâs never fucked you in this form.
Her hands appear to be twelve inches now.
Lord knows whatâs going on down there.
So you do as told, sinking a third digit into your cunt. The stretch aches, but this time, Vi aids by keeping your hips elevated with one hand and raising her free one to suck her thumb into her mouth. Then, she lowers it to rub circles over your clit. You relax around yourself little by little, worked up by your fingers, Viâs thumb on your clit, and the sound of her desperate little pants the longer you finger yourself for.
You're already feeling that climb. The warmth that begins to pool and curl deep in your belly, the flush that begins to run down to your fingertips, and the itch you're eager to tear to have that orgasm.
But, Vi rips that feeling by pulling her thumb away.
"Fuck you, Vi.." You hiss, dropping your head back onto the mountain of pillows with a groan. You pull your fingers out with a grunt, and before you can wipe them clean on the sheets, Vi does the job by leaning down and taking them into your mouth.
"Hm?" Vi croons, the grin that curls the corners of her lips making the fangs behind them peak out. "Do you want to say that again?"
She doesn't give you much time to answer before she's pushing her boxers down. Vi hisses as her length is freed, pink brows furrowing as it slaps against her stomach. She's painfully hard, the pink head â which goes a bit past her belly button â weeps with pre. There's the knot at the base, not yet swollen to it's full potential, but still there.
But before you can appreciate her bare self, she's rolling you over onto your belly. You raise your head, but Vi's right hand is quick to snap out and press itself flat between your shoulder blades. You're left with no choice but to keep your cheek squished to the sheets, and are just barely able to peek over your shoulder. Her free hand grasps your hip, lifting it so that your spine forms a comfortable arch.
"Look at you," Vi grunts, giving a pat to your hip as a silent order to remain in position. She lets go, if only to grasp herself and align the tip of her cock over your entrance. You breathe out against the bedding as she pushes in barely over an inch, then withdraws. "S'eager for me... I'll have you stuffed full soon enough."
She makes quick on that promise with a swift, smooth roll of her hips forward. A choked whine spills from your lips as she stretches you open, curling your fingers into the sheets to ease every intake of air and relax around her further. But Vi's hugeâ there's so much of her, and she's yet to sheathe herself inside fully. The hand on your upper back slides down to instead splay over your tummy, fingers spread to press up against the soft flesh just as Vi's hips meet your backside.
She's in, fully and entirely, and you're thankful she's giving you a few seconds to get used to the slight burnt of the stretch. Her fingertips press against the bulge beneath the fat, and you shudder as her breath suddenly ghosts over your neck when Vi bows forward.
"Do you feel that? Feel me?" There's a certain level of mirth in her tone, amplified by the chuckle that follows when you groan as her hips draw back a few inches, then snap back forward just as quickly. "Made to take me, I swear it..."
That's the last Vi says before she begins to fuck you properly.
Every roll of her hips is calculatedâ firm and rough yet perfectly angled to hit that sweet spot within you. The sheer bulk of her body keeps you pinned beneath her with no ability to move. You can only take, and take, and take, gasping against the sheets as the head of her cock kisses your cervix every so often, and her fingers keep pressing against the bulge her size forms. Saliva drips from her mouth down onto your shoulder, and you choke on your breath slightly as Vi's tongue laps it up.
Her hand over your belly slides down, middle and ring finger reaching over to rub circles on your clit. She matches the speed of her thrusts with every caress against the bud of nerves, and Vi chuckles against your ear when your hips begin to eagerly meet hers. It's overstimulating, almost, given that you're still somewhat sensitive from that denied orgasm from earlier. But Vi cares not.
You can feel that warmth building up all over againâ quicker now, with much more intensity. Vi can tell, as she quits alternating the speed of her thrusts and keeps her pace even.
"Can feelâ you squeezing me already. Eager for me to fill you, is that it?" Vi grunts against your ear. Her throat's a little drier now, and there's the occasional hiccup between her words; she's close herself, obviously. "I'll stuff you full, baby. Knot you to keep it alllll in there, keep your womb warm andâ"
She cuts herself off with a groan, driven by instinct to instead seal her mouth over your right shoulder with a firm bite. You cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain as your orgasm crashes over you, torn between the sweet flush of warmth it brings from head to toe, and the ache and burn her fangs cause by plunging into your flesh. Vi shudders as your blood hits her tongue, and she's quick to soothe the bite with her tongue before focusing on her own pleasure. Her thrusts are a little more clumsy now, quick and rough. She mutters against your shoulder, though given her teeth are still imbedded into your skin, leaves her words intelligible. You're sensitive, yet can still feel your cunt flutter around her cock in spasms to keep her going. It doesn't take long for Vi to meet her own end, and she comes with a deep groan against your shoulder.
Her knot forces its way in, earning a whimper from your throat at the extra and final stretch your walls are forced to accommodate. Vi's cock pulses, releasing thick and warm ropes of her seed into you. None of it leaks, not with the plug her knot acts as, settling deep in your wombâ much like she had promised. It's a full minute before she ceases the slow rut of her hips and stills completely, and finally, she releases your shoulder and leans back to sit up on her knees.
It's an uncomfortable position, the one you two will be stuck in for a long while, so Vi settles for at least lowering your hips so that your stomach meets the mattress. Her thumb traces the indents of her teeth, wiping away the blood that still drips.
"We'll be here a while," She states, drawing a deep breath into her lungs before leaning down again. She exhales against your cheek and nuzzles her own over it, causing a slight shiver from you. "So get comfortable."
Summary: Best friends with matching scars. From best friends to rehab partners to a little bit more. Sometimes unexpected and emotional situation cause the feeling to come to the surface ... finally. Â
sportsnews Spain will be without Ballon d'Or-winning midfielder Alexia Putellas for Euro 2022 after she suffered an anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) injury on the eve of the tournament.
The Spanish football federation (RFEF) said Putellas, who captains Barcelona and the national team, had sprained her knee in training on Tuesday.
Further medical tests showed the 28-year-old had ruptured her ACL. Spain begin their Euros campaign against Finland on Friday.
They will now be without the influential Putellas, Fifa's best women's player of 2021, who has made 100 appearances and scored 27 goals for the national side.
sportsnews Sweden International Lova Edvinsson will miss the rest of the Euros and likely her next season with Barcelona after suffering an ACL rupture on Friday.Â
During Sweden's opening game against the Netherlands, Edvinsson went down in a tackle and was unable to play the rest of the match. After scans and a full medical assessment Sweden has since confirm Edvinsson has ruptured her ACL and is set to returned to Barcelona in order to complete her surgery and her being her recovery and rehabilitation.
"Either my mum is going to kill me, or I'm going to kill my mum. At this point I'm not entirely sure which one would come first." I said as I walked through the door with Otto. He was already halfway across the room on his way to find Nala.
Alexia was lying out across her sofa, her leg supported all around, while she had the muscle stimulator on. She was facing the window while she was scrolling on her phone. As soon as she heard the tapping of nails on the floor, she sat up to face me.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, shocked.
"I can't do it anymore. If I get told to elevate my leg that is already elevated ONE MORE TIME..." I paused as the frustration started building all over again.
I hobbled my way across the room, each step still such an effort as I wasn't yet fully used to my extra limbs. Alexia was still lying across the full couch, leaving me no room to sit down at all.
"Move up," I told her.
She just looked up at me in horror like I'd just threatened to kill Nala. "This is my couch."
"Okay... and this is currently my hiding spot, so move up," I said again, tapping her uninjured leg in order to get her to actually move. It just turned into a staring contest between the pair of us until I made her give in.
She let out a heavy sigh before finally giving in to me and moving up to give me enough space to sit next to her and keep my leg 'elevated'. The same thing that had been drilled into me for the past two weeks and had driven me slightly crazy.
"God, you're so bossy." She muttered as she shuffled across the couch.
"Says you." I shot back.
"You're the one who has broken into my house, has taken over the place with your stuff and is now demanding I move while completing very delicate recovery."
"One ... it's not breaking in if I have a key; it is simply entering. Two ... that stuff is Otto, who you love, so don't ever call him stuff or pretend you don't love him because I've seen you cuddling on the floor with him, and three ... I too am doing delicate recovery, so move up, grumpy pants."
Alexia just looked at me the way she always did, and I could see her trying to hide her smirk. I could read Alexia better than most people, and when she started to move her mouth and bite her lip, I knew she was suppressing a smirk or a laugh.
"You do know this is the first place your mum is going to look for you." She said, trying to divert the attention back onto me.
"Well then, I've got until she finds me. Realistically, though, where else was I going to escape to?" Alexia was my best friend; we'd been inseparable since the moment we bumped into each other on my first day in Barcelona. So realistically, I wasn't going to go anywhere else, but even if I did want to escape somewhere else, nobody else was here; they were still in England for the Euros.
"Why are you killing Astrid today?" She asked as she laughed slightly.
"Elevate your leg Lo ... you've got to keep it elevated. Make sure you ice your knee. Have you got ice on your knee? You must keep it elevated at all times. I haven't moved in practically two weeks, and the one time I did need to move was because I needed to pee so badly because she's been making me drink so much water to 'keep me hydrated'." I sighed in frustration.
This wasn't a simple situation for anyone to be in. My mum had come all the way here with no idea how long she would be here, just to take care of me. She'd given up her holiday with her girls to come and look after her girl. I appreciated that more than she knew, and that I was currently letting on, but it had gone from the point of helping to feeling slightly suffocating. I loved my mum more than anything and appreciated her being here to help, but I was missing my independence, which I'd become so used to. I was a twenty-six-year-old woman who had lived abroad since the age of eighteen, who, after eight years, had reverted to feeling six.
Alexia's eyes softened as she looked at me. "Come here." She reached her arm around my shoulders, pulling me into the side of her chest. I lay my head into her shoulder, allowing myself to just breathe. I wrapped my arms around her waist, keeping her close. This felt safe.
"Mami's the same," Alexia said, and there was relief in her voice at being able to say it out loud without feeling the judgement of the words. "She means well, but I feel like I can't breathe. Can't have a moment to just... feel what I'm feeling without someone trying to fix it or make it better."
"Yes. Exactly that." I lifted my head to look at her. "How's the pain?"
"Constant. It's better than the first week, but it's always there. It's this ache that never quite goes away and then at night ... " She touched her knee gently, almost absently.
"It's worse at night," I finished. "I can't find a position that doesn't hurt. I wake up every two hours." I was quiet for a minute, just really assessing the situation we found ourselves in: "This fucking sucks." I muttered quietly into her chest.
"Yep." Alexia was quiet for "I don't want to do it. I don't think I can do it."
"Hey... look at me." I sat up slightly, taking her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me. "We've got this. You've got this, and if you've not, then I will drag you through this whether you like it or not because you best believe I'm not doing this alone ... We went down together; we come back together." I told her firmly.
Alexia's eyes were slowly becoming more watery, tears lining her lash line as I spoke. "So stubborn." She laughed, though it was a small laugh which was thick with emotion.
I couldn't help but laugh too. "Again ... says you. You're one of the most stubborn people I've ever met."
"So, you've met yourself." She said flatly but with a smile. I just looked at her before I punched her lightly in the shoulder.
"Oh, that is abuse." She said, rubbing her shoulder like I'd punched her hand.
"You'll live with it." I reached up and wiped the stray tear from her cheek with my thumb. "We're going to be okay. Both of us, we're going to make it through."
"Together?" she asked.
"Together. You couldn't get rid of me even if you tried."
I leant back into her, and I wrapped my arm back around her, pulling her close. I fit against her perfectly, my head tucked under my chin, her breathing gradually slowing and evening out. My own exhaustion was creeping in now; the walk over here had taken more out of me than I thought, coupled with the constant pain, it had drained all the energy out of me.
"I'm so tired all the time. Is that normal?" I murmured.
"Your body is healing. It takes everything you have." Alexia's voice was already similarly drowsy.
Otto and Nala had curled up together on Nala's bed. Otto's gentle snoring provides an acoustic backdrop. The apartment was warm, filled with soft light, and for the first time in two weeks, I felt like I could actually rest. Not the fitful, pain-interrupted sleep I'd been getting at home, but real rest. The kind that came from being truly understood, from not having to pretend or perform or be brave.
Alexia held firm around me, keeping me safe, and she was warm and solid beside me, her breathing deep and even, and my body was so heavy, so tired.
--- ---
"Yeah, they're here, both of them ... yes, and Otto as well ... don't worry, she's fine."
My eyes opened slowly, reluctantly. The light had changed; now it wasn't a steady glow of the afternoon sun; instead, it was softer, with what appeared to be early evening light. How long had we been asleep? Eli was standing over us with her phone pressed to her ear, looking at us with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
I shifted to sit up, which caused Alexia to stir underneath me. I blinked away the grogginess, readjusting to the light as I smoothed my hair back out.
"Yes, she's here. She's fine. They're both fine, they just ... they fell asleep." Eli's eyes met mine, and there was understanding there, but also concern. "Your mum wants to talk to you." She told me, holding her phone out for me.
Reality crashed back in. My mother's voice was audible even through the phone, high-pitched with worry and relief and probably anger. I carefully extracted myself from Alexia's arms, my knee protesting the movement after hours of stillness. I took the phone from Eli, mentally preparing for the lecture I was about to get. Very quickly, I knew I would be six again, not twenty-six.
"Hi Mum ... no I'm fine ... no sorry I should have told you ... Mum I always walk him without a lead I've trained him to do that ... he's fine he's asleep with Nala ... yes I'm fine as well ... yes my leg is up."
As I listened and answered her frantic questions, I felt Alexia's hand take mine, lacing her fingers through mine, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
Together, she'd said. Maybe right now that was going to be enough.
--- ---Â
It turned out to be everything.
The gym had become our second home and was even rivalling our first. We were there every single day, sometimes twice a day, our lives reduced to a rhythm of exercises and ice baths and small, hard-won victories that no one else would understand.
The gym smelled like rubber and sweat with a sharp tang of athletic tape. It was a small space, tucked away in the Barcelona training facility, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light on the bad days and never enough on the worse ones. There were resistance bands in every colour, foam rollers that left marks on our skin, balance boards that mocked us with their instability, and machines designed specifically to rebuild what we'd destroyed.
Week three post-surgery, we started with the basics. Quad sets, lying on our backs, trying to activate muscles that in even the small space of time had forgotten how to fire. It sounded simple until I was staring down at my own leg, willing it to do something as fundamental as tighten, and nothing happened.
"Come on," I muttered at my quad like it could hear my words and would magically start working again. My hands were pressed firmly against the muscle, searching for any sign of contraction. "Work. Please just work."
Beside me on her own mat, Alexia was doing the same, her face tight with concentration. Our physio, Marc, stood between us, with bucket loads of patience and encouragement in that way that sometimes made me want to scream.
"It takes time," he said. "The neural pathways need to reconnect. Don't force it."
"I'm not forcing it, I'm begging it,"Â Alexia said through gritted teeth.
I laughed despite my situation, and she turned to look at me, and suddenly we were both laughing. A mixture of exhaustion and frustration caused hysterical laughter that had nothing to do with humour and everything to do with the absurdity of our situation. Two of the best players in the world, who had so many trophies between us, including but not limited to two Ballon d'Ors, however, they weren't my doing, but I had come second, and now we were unable to make our own legs work.
"Ten more attempts," Marc said, unmoved by our breakdown, just looked back and forth between us firmly. "Each of you."
We did as we were told, so that was ten more, and then misleadingly ten more after that.
By week six, we'd graduated to straight leg raises. Lying on our backs, lifting our braced legs six inches off the ground and holding them there while our cores shook and our hips burned and sweat dripped into our eyes.
"Five more seconds,"Â Alexia gasped beside me.
"I can't,"Â I admitted, starting to lower my leg to the floor.
"You can. Count with me then. Five ... "
"Four,"Â I managed, my leg trembling violently as I kept it lifted at our original height.
"Three ... "
"Two ... "
"One. Down."
We both let our legs drop, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
"Again,"Â Marc said.
"I hate you,"Â Alexia told him.
"I know. Again."Â He said with zero ounce of remorse.
We did it again and again and again.
The days blurred together, marked only by the exercises that defined them. Heel slides, bending our knees as far as they would go, which wasn't far at all. Ankle pumps until our calves cramped. Standing weight shifts that made us feel like toddlers learning how to walk. Each movement was a negotiation with pain, a test of how much we could endure before our bodies simply refused.
During week eight, I broke.
We were doing single-leg balance exercises, standing on our injured legs, trying to hold steady for thirty seconds. I'd made it to twelve when my knee gave out, buckling beneath me. I caught myself on the parallel bars, but the failure hit harder than I expected it to.
"I can't do this," I said, and my voice cracked. "I can't. It's been two months, and I can't even stand on one leg for thirty seconds. How am I supposed to play football again when I can't even stand? How am I supposed to ... "
"Stop." Alexia was beside me, her hand on either side of my face. "Look at me."
I looked.
"Four weeks ago, you couldn't stand on that leg at all. Four weeks before that, you couldn't even put weight on it. You're comparing yourself to who you were before, but that's not fair. Compare yourself to who you were yesterday."Â She said gently.
"Yesterday I held it for fifteen seconds."Â I sniffed.
"Today you held it for twelve. So tomorrow you'll hold it for thirteen and the day after that, fourteen. That's how this works. Not in giant leaps. In tiny, frustrating, painful increments."
I wanted to argue, but I knew she was right. She was always right about this because she was living it too.
"Again," she said, echoing Marc's favourite word. "We'll do it together this time."
She stood right in front of me, looking me directly in the eyes, each on our injured leg, hands hovering over the parallel bars for balance. We made it to twenty seconds before we both had to grab on.
"Better,"Â Alexia said with a smile.
"Barely,"Â I muttered, looking down at my feet, finding them entirely more interesting.
"Better," she insisted search for my eyes until she met them. When she did just looked me dead in the eyes and raised her eyebrows at me like 'I told you so ... you should listen to me properly'.
By week ten, we'd made it to the pool for aqua therapy, to give it the technical term, Marc called it. I called it torture in a different medium; the only benefit to take was that at least the water was warm. We did walking drills, high knees, leg swings, all while the water provided resistance and support in equal measure.
"I used to love swimming," I said, dragging my leg through another round of high knee lift.
"Used to?" Alexia was beside me; her face flushed from the effort.
"Now it just reminds me of this."
"We'll reclaim it. After we're done, we'll go to the beach, and we'll just float and do absolutely nothing athletic whatsoever. We'll go diving off cliffs, and we'll jump waves like little kids."
The thought brought a smile to my face, "Promise?"
"Promise."
Week twelve felt like the first major milestone. It was the first day we were cleared to use the stationary bike. No resistance, just a gentle movement to remind our knees what cycling felt like. I felt the tears in my eyes the first time I completed a full revolution. Alexia pretended not to notice, but her hand found, stretching across from her bike to hold my hand, giving it a tight squeeze.
"We're getting there," I said.
"Are we?"
"Yes, we are." For the first time since I'd gone down, I felt that that statement was finally true. We were getting there. We were getting back.
By week sixteen, we were doing small agility drills, side steps, careful and controlled, our knees wrapped and braced. The first time I moved laterally without thinking about it or overthinking it or having my falling to the ground on that pitch at the forefront of my mind, I stopped dead.
"What?" Alexia asked, alarmed.
"I just ..." I stopped looking down at my bandaged knee, looking at the cones that were all around us. "I didn't think about it. I just moved."
Her face broke into a smile, genuine and bright. "There we go, Lo!"
I looked over my shoulder to see the excitement on her face and in her voice, which seemed a bit unwarranted for what I'd just done. "It was one side step."
"That's where it starts." She said with a proud smile still on her face.
--- ---Â
"Two coffees, please."Â I attempted.
"And two croissants,"Â Alexia added, then looked at me. "Did I say that right?" She whispered in my ear.
"I have no idea. I'm just going off what Google tells me." I whispered back.
We laughed, and it was weird how a simple emotion could feel so foreign. Genuine laughter that had nothing to do with exhaustion or pain or the absurdity of our situation. Just laughter because we were happy.
The croissants arrived, flaky and warm, and we tore them apart with our hands, getting butter on our fingers, not caring in the slightest. The coffee was strong and bitter and perfect. We sat there for an hour, watching people pass, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said.
We climbed Montmartre in the afternoon, taking the steps slowly, not because we had to anymore, but because we wanted to savour the moment. The SacrĂŠ-CĹur rose white and tall above us, and from the top, Paris spread out in every direction, a sea of grey rooftops and green parks and the silver ribbon of the Seine cutting through it all.
"It's beautiful," Alexia said, her shoulder pressed against mine.
"Yeah." I agreed.
"We should have done this years ago." She said.
"We were too busy playing football."
"True." She was quiet for a moment. "Do you miss it? Right now, in this moment?"
I thought about it honestly. "Not right now. Right now, I'm exactly where I want to be."
She smiled, and something in her eyes softened. "Me too."
We wandered through the Tuileries Garden as the sun broke through the clouds, casting everything in gold. We bought gelato from a cart even though it was barely warm enough, and we sat on the edge of a fountain, people-watching the rest of the people in the park. We played our favourite game of making up fake scenarios and conversations for the people we saw.
That night, we got ready for the concert in our hotel room. Alexia did her makeup carefully, her hand steady as she drew a perfect wing of eyeliner. I struggled with mine; eyeliner had never been my strength, as I smudged it twice before she took the pencil from me and did it herself. Her face was so close to mine, her breath warm on my face.
"There, perfect," she said, leaning back to admire her work.
"You're biased."
"Maybe, but I'm also right."
The venue was packed out, with the atmosphere electric with anticipation. We pushed our way into the crowds until we found our seats. When the lights went down and the music started, RosalĂa's voice filled the space, raw and powerful, and Alexia grabbed my hand, and we were moving, dancing, singing along to words we half-knew and half-invented.
"PIENSO EN TU MIRĂ, TU MIRĂ," we screamed with everyone else, and it didn't matter that we were off-key or that we didn't know all the lyrics. It only mattered that we were here, alive, whole in a way that had nothing to do with anything else we had going on.
Alexia spun me, laughing, her hair flying. I caught her around the waist, and we danced pressed together, the crowd surging around us, the bass vibrating through our chests. For hours, we forgot. We forgot the gym, the pain, the fear, the long road still ahead. We were just two people lost in music, in movement, in the pure joy of being.
When "Malamente" came on, the crowd went wild. Alexia threw her head back and sang, her voice hoarse and happy, and I watched her, really watched her, and felt something shift in my chest, something I'd been ignoring for longer than I wanted to admit.
By the time we stumbled out of the venue, it was past midnight. My ears were ringing, my voice was shot, but I couldn't stop smiling. Alexia's makeup was smudged, her hair was a mess, and she looked more beautiful than I'd ever seen her.
"That was ... "Â I started.
"Everything,"Â she finished.
We walked through the streets of Paris in the dark, following the Seine, letting our feet carry us without official direction. The city was quieter now, just the occasional car, the distant sound of laughter from a late-night bar. The Eiffel Tower appeared ahead of us, lit up gold against the black sky, and without discussing it, we headed toward it.
The Champ de Mars was nearly empty as we found a spot on the grass, close enough to see the tower's intricate structure, but far enough away to take in its full height. I lay back, feeling the cool grass against my neck, and Alexia settled beside me, her shoulder touching mine.
The grass was damp with evening dew, cold seeping through my jeans, but Alexia's warmth beside me made it bearable. Above us, the Eiffel Tower rose like a golden skeleton against the night sky, its lights glittering in patterns that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the city. I could hear distant traffic, the murmur of voices from somewhere across the park, the rustle of leaves in the trees lining the Champ de Mars. The air smelled like rain and metal and something floral I couldn't name.
Alexia shifted closer, and I felt the solid press of her shoulder against mine; her thigh aligned with mine. The contact was grounding, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
"Do you remember when we first met?" she asked, her voice soft in the darkness.
I smiled at the memory. "How could I forget. You ran into me, and later on, I found out your locker was next to mine.
"You didn't speak any Spanish or Catalan."
"You didn't speak any English or Swedish either."
I turned my head to look at her, and she was already watching me, her face half-lit by the tower's glow. "That first day, I tried to introduce myself, and you just stared at me like I was speaking another language," Alexia said, laughing softly.
"You were literally speaking another language," I argued.
"Fair point." She turned her head to look at me properly, and I could see the amusement dancing in her eyes. "Then you pulled out your phone and typed something into Google and showed it to me."
The memory was so vivid I could almost feel the weight of my phone in my hand, the panic thrumming through my veins. I'd been so desperate to make a good impression, to not seem rude or standoffish. "'Hello, my name is Lova. I am happy to be here,' is what I was trying to say. "Except the translation was terrible, and it came out as something like 'Greetings, I am called Lova. I have happiness for this place.'"
Alexia laughed, the sound bright and clear, cutting through the night air. Still one of my favourite sounds in the whole world. "I thought you were so formal. So serious."
"I was terrified. New country, new team, and I couldn't communicate with anyone." The admission came easier now, years later, but I could still remember that first day. The weight of the surprise transfer, the isolation it brought with it, and the fear that this would be a terrible mistake. "I felt like I was drowning and everyone was speaking underwater."
Her hand found mine in the grass, threading her fingers together with mine. "We figured it out. Translating everything. You'd type in Swedish, I'd type in Spanish, and somehow we became best friends through a phone screen."
"Remember when you tried to tell me about the team dinner and the translation said 'we will now eat the dead animals together'?" I remembered.
"You looked horrified!"
"I thought it was some kind of weird Spanish thing!" I was laughing now, the memory absurd and precious. "I was genuinely debating whether I should call my agent to get me out of there."
"Or that time," Alexia began, squeezing my hand, "when you tried to ask me where the bathroom was and the translation came out as 'Where is the room of water shame?'"
"Oh God, I'd forgotten about that one." I laughed, covering my face with my spare hand.
"I hadn't. I was so confused. I thought maybe it was a Swedish expression."
"Or the time you tried to tell me about the team's pre-match ritual," I added, "and Google said something about 'we must sacrifice the orange one before the battle.'"
"I meant the chant, not a sacrifice!" Alexia was laughing so hard that she had to sit up slightly. "You thought we were going to perform some kind of sacrificial ceremony!"
"You can't blame me! Nothing made sense! The only thing I could think of from that was that you were about to sacrifice the poor media girl somehow."
"Why would we have done that?" she asked through the laughs and the tears.
"I don't know, but she was a ginger and the only thing close to being orange in that changing room."
Eventually, the laughter faded into something softer, warmer. The tower sparkled above us, and the cold was seeping deeper into my bones. No matter how cold it was, I didn't want to move or break this moment.
"Do you remember," I said quietly, "that day in the locker room when I was trying to tell you about Otto, and I told you I had a 'furry son who barked at a stranger's? I mean, I wasn't wrong, but I also wasn't right."
"I was so confused."
"You looked so concerned."
"Because I was. I thought you were talking about a human, not a dog!"
I could picture it so clearly, Alexia's face, that mixture of confusion and worry, her phone already half-raised to translate something back to me. "You stayed after training for an hour just to help me learn how to say basic things properly after that."
"Of course I did." Her voice was gentle now, the teasing gone. "You looked so lost."
"I was lost. Every day for months, I was lost, and yet you were so patient with me. Even when I butchered every word, even when I mixed up Catalan and Spanish, even when I accidentally said that I enjoyed 'making love to football' instead of 'I love to play football.'" The admission felt important somehow, here in the dark with the Eiffel Tower glittering above us.
Alexia groaned. "I'd forgotten about that one."
"Mapi never let me forget it."
"No, she wouldn't." Alexia's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "You learned, though, Lova, you learned so fast. Within six months, you were cracking jokes in Catalan."
"Bad jokes."
"The best bad jokes." She shifted, turning onto her side to face me fully, propping herself up on her elbow. The grass rustled beneath her, and I could feel the heat of her body even through the cold night air. "Do you remember when you tried to teach me Swedish?"
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. You made me practice saying 'Jag älskar fotboll' over and over."
"I love football. A very basic phrase for us."
"Except I kept saying it wrong and you kept laughing at me." She said, raising her eyebrows, teasingly.
"You said 'Jag älskar fÜtter' instead. You told everyone you loved feet."
"For a week!" Alexia protested. "For a whole week, I was going around saying I loved feet, and you didn't correct me!"
"It was funny!" I argued.
"It was mean."
"It was a little mean," I admitted, grinning. "You got me back in the end when you taught me to say, 'good morning' in Catalan, and it was actually 'You're old.'"
"That was an accident!" she said dismissively.
"Was it though?"
"Mostly an accident." She was smiling now, that soft smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "But watching you greet Josep with 'Ets gran' every morning for three days was pretty entertaining."
We were both laughing now, the memories spilling out of both of us. A year of miscommunications and patient repetition, of hand gestures and drawings, of staying late after training so Alexia could teach me Catalan phrases and I could teach her Swedish ones. I remembered the way she'd write words on Post-it notes and leave them in my locker. "porta" on my water bottle, "sabates" on my boots, "amiga" on my training bib. I remembered teaching her to count to ten in Swedish, how she'd practice while we did cooldown laps, her accent making the words sound both so foreign and familiar.
"You used to draw me little pictures. When the words didn't work. Little stick figures to explain drills or plays." I said softly, "I still have some of those drawings. In a box under my bed."
"Really?"
"Really." I turned to face her fully now, mirroring her position, our faces close in the darkness. The Eiffel Tower's lights cast shifting shadows across her features. "You drew me a whole comic strip-looking thing once, trying to explain the flow of play they wanted us to do."
I saw something shift in Alexia's eyes. Even in the dim light, I could see the physical shift from brown to green. "You drew me a map of Sweden with little hearts on all your favourite places."
"You were showing me around Barcelona, and I wanted you to understand where I came from." I said with a soft smile.Â
"I kept it; it's still on my fridge," she said.
Something in my chest tightened. Five years. Five years of this, of learning each other's languages, each other's hearts. Slowly, painfully, beautifully, we'd built our own language. Not just Swedish or Spanish or Catalan or English, but something that belonged only to us. A language of patience and laughter, of late nights in the training facility, of Google Translate mishaps and hand-drawn maps and words left on scraps of paper.
"Your Catalan is so good now," Alexia said, and there was something in her voice that resembled pride.
"Your English is better."
"Five years," she said softly. "Five years of learning how to talk to each other."
The weight of it settled over us. Five years of building this bridge between us, word by word, mistake by mistake, laugh by laugh. Five years of choosing each other, of staying late, of being patient when patience was hard. Five years of becoming fluent not just in each other's languages, but in each other.
I could feel her breath on my face, warm and a stark contrast to the cold night air. The grass was freezing beneath us now, the dew soaking through our clothes, but neither of us moved. The Eiffel Tower sparkled and flashed above us, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing music, the notes drifting across the park.
"Best five years of my life," I said, and meant it with every part of me.
Her eyes searched mine, and I realized we'd moved closer without meaning to, or maybe we'd meant to all along. I could count her eyelashes from here, could see the exact shade of gold the tower's lights painted across her skin. We'd spent five years learning to communicate, learning to understand each other, and now ... now we were here, and I understood her without her saying a single word. I understood the way she was looking at me, the way her hand tightened around mine, the way her breath caught slightly.
Five years of learning her language, and now I could read her like poetry.
She was quiet for a moment, and when I turned to look at her, she was already looking at me. The Eiffel Tower sparkled behind her, its hourly light show beginning, but I couldn't look away from her face.
"Lova," she said, and there was something in her voice I'd never heard before.
"Yeah?"
She didn't answer with words. Instead, she reached up, her hand gentle against my cheek, which pulled me closer as she kissed me.
It was soft. Slow and tender in a way that made my heart stop and restart. Her lips were warm, and she tasted like the mint gum she'd been chewing and something else, something that was just her. The world narrowed to only this ... her mouth on mine, her hand on my face, the grass beneath us and the stars above us, and in that moment, nothing else mattered in the slightest.
When she pulled back, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. My face was on fire as the heat flooded my cheeks, and I did the only thing I could think of. I buried my face in her neck, taking my only hiding spot.
"Lova," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
"Don't."
"Are you blushing because I kissed you?" she said, and I knew a smirk was written all over her face.
"No," I answered less than convincingly.
"You're blushing."
"I'm not."
"You are. I can feel it. Your face is like a radiator."
"Stop talking."
She laughed, her hand coming up to stroke my hair. "It's cute. You're cute."
"Alexia ... "
"So red. Like a tomato. Like a ... "
I kissed her again, cutting off her words, and this time it was less gentle, more desperate. I kissed her to shut her up, to make her stop teasing me, but I also did it because I wanted to, because I'd wanted to for longer than I'd let myself admit.
When we broke apart this time, I pulled back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, and there, spreading across her cheeks, was a flush of pink.
"Who's blushing now?" I asked, grinning.
"I'm not ... " she tried to argue.
"You are. Look at you."
"It's the cold," she said, but her voice was unsteady.
"Try again," I said, this time with a smirk on my face.
"The lighting. The tower is reflecting ... "
"Alexia."
She bit her lip, and the pink deepened to red. "Okay. Maybe I'm blushing a little."
"A little?"
"Fine. You win. I'm blushing a lot because you kissed me."
I laughed, and she laughed, and then she kissing again, softer this time. The Eiffel Tower sparkled above us, Paris hummed around us, and for the first time in months, everything felt right and a little bit more okay.Â
--- ---Â
The roar of the Johan Cruyff Stadium was deafening, a wall of sound that pressed against my chest as I sat on the bench, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. April 30th, 2023. Barcelona versus Sporting Club de Huelva. It was a match we were used to, but this time the league title was within reach.
Beside me, Alexia sat with the same tension, her fingers drumming against her thigh. We'd both been cleared to play by the medical team. It was only meant to be short minutes, just enough to get our bodies back into the rhythm of playing again, but at least it was something. Sitting here, watching the match unfold without us, felt like a different type of torture to rehab.
The score was 1-0. An okay lead, but not safe. Never safe, not even close to safe.
I watched Aitana weave through the midfield, watched Caro make a run down the wing, and my body ached to be out there with them. Eleven months. Eleven months since I'd played a competitive match. Since that tackle in the Euros opener had torn my ACL and ripped away everything I'd taken for granted.
"Nervous?" Alexia murmured beside me, her voice barely audible over the crowd.
"Terrified," I admitted. My hand found her as I held onto her for safety and comfort.
"Me too." She whispered to me as she gave my hand a gentle squeeze in acknowledgement.
"Alexia. Lova." Jonatan turned to us, "Warm up. You're going on in five."
The world tilted slightly as I stood. Alexia stood up beside me, and together we jogged to the sideline, our movements careful and controlled as we followed the coach's instructions. My knee felt strong beneath me; months of work had made sure of that, but there was still that whisper of fear, that what-if that lived in the back of my mind now.
We stretched, we moved, we waited. The crowd had noticed the second we started warming up, and the noise was huge.
"Alexia! Alexia!"
"Lova! Lova!"
Hearing my name, sung by thousands of voices, had my eyes burning with the threat of tears.
"Don't cry yet. Save them for after." Alexia said, bumping her shoulder against mine.
"Who says I'm going to cry?"
Alexia just looked at me with a questioning look as she raised her eyebrows at me. "I know you."
She did. She knew me better than anyone.
The whistle blew in the 73rd minute. The board went up for two substitutions.
Number 11 and number 36.
Alexia went on first, but she only just stepped over the white line as she swapped places with Pina. She waited there for me as Salma swapped for me. The second I stepped over the line, we ran into position together.
The sound was physical, a force that washed over me, over both of us. I could see fans in the stands, could hear our teammates clapping, and could see the respect in the eyes of the Huelva players as they watched us take our positions.
Alexia dropped into her usual position in the midfield while I took my place up in the front. The grass felt like home beneath my boots.
The referee's whistle blew, and we were playing.
Every touch of the ball was electric. My first pass was simple, a small pass to Caro, but it felt monumental. My first run was only ten meters as I tracked back on defense, but it made my heart soar. I was playing. I was actually playing football again, not thinking about it or dreaming about it ... I was actually doing it.
Beside me, I could feel Alexia's presence on the pitch the way I always had, that sixth sense that told me where she was and what she was thinking. We'd spent five years building that connection, and eleven months of injury hadn't broken it. If anything, it had made it stronger.
The minutes ticked by. 75th. 80th. 85th. Huelva was pressing now, desperate, but we were holding firm. My legs were burning now; match fitness was different from training fitness, and my body was remembering that the hard way, but I didn't care. I would run until I collapsed if that's what it took.
In the 88th minute, Patri won the ball in midfield and immediately looked up, finding Alexia. I saw it happening before it happened, the way I always could with her. Alexia received the pass, turned, and suddenly there was space opening up ahead of me.
I ran.
My knee held. My body remembered. I ran the way I'd run a thousand times before, the way I'd dreamed of running during those long months of rehab, and Alexia's pass was perfect, threaded over two defenders, weighted just right, landing exactly where I needed it.
The ball came to my feet, and as it did, it felt like time slowed down.
The goalkeeper came off her line, and I could hear the crowd cheering behind me, the rising roar of anticipation. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs. Eleven months. Eleven months of pain and doubt and fear and work, and it all came down to this moment.
I struck the ball, and it flew to the far side of the goal, past the keeper's outstretched hands, past the defender sliding desperately on the line, and right into the back of the net.
Goal.
I'd scored.
I stood there, frozen, staring at the ball sitting in the net like I couldn't quite believe it was real. The stadium was screaming, my teammates were screaming, but I couldn't move, couldn't process what had just happened. After everything, after the injury that had torn my world apart, after the surgery and the pain and the months of wondering if I'd ever be the same, I'd just done what I'd been known for before.
The shock lasted maybe three seconds, maybe less, and then it broke like a wave, and I was running.
Not toward the corner flag, not toward the fans, not towards my teammate, but toward Alexia.
She was already running toward me, her face split in the widest smile I'd ever seen, and when we collided, I jumped, wrapping my legs around her waist, my arms around her neck, holding on like she was the only solid thing as the world spun around me.
"You did it," she was saying, or maybe I was saying it, or maybe we were both saying it. "You did it, you did it, you did it."
I was crying. She was crying. Our teammates crashed into us, a pile of bodies and joy and relief, but I held on tight to Alexia through all of it, my face buried in her neck.
The final whistle blew two minutes later. Barcelona 2, Sporting Club de Huelva 0, and league champions to seal it all off.
The celebration was chaosâchampagne and music and dancing, cameras everywhere. Through it all, I kept finding Alexia's eyes and just naturally gravitated back to her side, where I'd been for the past eleven months. This was our moment. Our triumph. Built on months of shared pain and shared work and shared hope.
When they brought out the trophy, they tried to hand it to Alexia. She was the captain. This was her moment, her responsibility, her right, but she hesitated. She looked at the trophy before looking at me and shaking her head.
"No," she said firmly. She ran up to me as I stood in the crowd of the team, waiting for her to bring it to us. She held her hand out for me to take, trying to pull me with her.
"No, Ale, you're the captain ... "
"You lift it with me, or I don't do it at all."
"That's not how this works. It's your job to do." I argued back.
"I don't care." Her eyes were fierce, determined, full of love."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her this was her moment, that she'd earned this, that she deserved to have this glory all to herself, but looking at her face, I knew I'd lose. Alexia had made up her mind, and when Alexia made up her mind, the universe bent to accommodate her.
"Okay," I whispered.
We gripped the trophy together, her on one side, me on the other, as we lifted it high above our heads. The crowd roared as gold streamers rained down from somewhere behind us. Cameras flashed like lightning in front of us, but all I looked at was Alexia beside me, her face full of joy, and all I could feel was the weight of the trophy and the lightness in my chest at the knowledge that we'd made it. Through the darkness, through the pain, through all the doubt, we'd made it back.
--- ---Â
Hours later, after the champagne had been drunk and the photos had been taken and the fans had reluctantly filtered out of the stadium, Alexia and I found ourselves standing in the middle of the pitch.
The stadium was completely empty now, bar a few staff members who were cleaning up, collecting abandoned scarves and signs, but they left us alone. The floodlights were on, casting everything in stark white light, and the grass was covered in confetti, looking like snow.
My arms were wrapped around Alexia's waist. Her arm was draped over my shoulders, holding me close against her side. We stood there in silence for a long moment, just breathing, just being.
"I can't believe we're here," I said finally, my voice quiet in the vast space.
"I can. I always knew we'd make it back." Alexia's voice was soft but certain.
"Did you? Really?" I turned my head to look at her because I knew for a fact that wasn't true. She might have known, but it wasn't always a conclusion.
She was quiet for a moment, considering. "Maybe not always," she admitted. "There were days when I wondered. When the pain was so bad, I couldn't imagine ever running again, let alone playing. When the physios would talk about timelines and percentages, and I'd think, what if I'm in the percentage that doesn't make it back?"
"Me too," I whispered in agreement.
"But we did it anyway." Her arm tightened around my shoulders, and in return I tightened mine around her waist. "We showed up anyway. We did the work anyway. Even when we were scared, even when it hurt, even when everyone was asking if we'd ever be the same."
I thought about those voices a lot. The commentators who'd speculated about our careers being over, the articles analysing our injury timelines, the well-meaning people who'd said things like 'at least they had a good run' as if our careers were already past tense. I thought about the doubt that had lived in my own head, the voices that whispered you'll never be as fast, as strong, as good as you were before.
"Are we the same as we were before?" I asked.
Alexia was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was carefully considered. "No. We're not the same. We're better."
"Better?"
"Stronger. Not just physically, though we are that too, after all that work, but mentally. Emotionally." She turned to face me fully, both arms coming around me now. "We know what it's like to lose everything. We know what it's like to have to fight for every single step back. We know what rock bottom feels like, and we know we can climb out of it. That makes us so much better, Lova."
I thought about the goal I'd scored tonight. The way my body had moved without thought, without fear, just pure instinct and muscle memory and trust. I thought about the months of work that had gone into that single moment. The hours in the gym, the painful sessions with the physios, the days when progress felt impossible and we'd pushed through anyway.
"We had one of the worst injuries we could have. An ACL rupture is sometimes a career-ending injury."
"Sometimes, but not for us." Alexia agreed.
"Not for us," I echoed.
I remembered that day, two weeks after our surgeries, when I'd shown up at her apartment desperate and hurting and so tired of being strong. I remembered curling up on her couch, hiding, and falling asleep in her arms. That had been the beginning, not of our friendship, which had started years before, but of something deeper. Something that had grown through shared pain and shared hope and shared determination.
I looked around at the now-empty stadium, at the torn-up pitch, at the trophy that sat nearby where we'd set it down, gleaming in the floodlights. I thought about the journey that had brought us here, from that sofa where we'd both questioned everything to this moment of triumph. Eleven months. Eleven months of work and pain and doubt and hope, and we'd made it through.
Together.
"I love you," I said, the words spilling out before I could think about them. "I love you so much, Ale."
"I love you too Lo." She leaned down and pressed her forehead against mine.
We stood there in the middle of the pitch, wrapped around each other, and I felt something settle in my chest. We'd survived the worst and come out the other side, not just intact but stronger. Together.
--- ---Â
The tunnel at Eden Park felt impossibly long as we walked out, two separate lines. Spain in red to my left, and I and the rest of the team in yellow to the left. I could see Alexia ahead of me in the Spanish line, her hair pulled back tight, her face set in that focused expression I knew so well. We'd spent the last year together, every single day, every meal, every training session, every quiet evening on the couch. We'd rebuilt ourselves side by side, lifted a league trophy together, kissed under the Eiffel Tower, built a life that felt unshakeable.
On the other side of the next ninety minutes, we were about to try to destroy each other's World Cup dreams.
The anthems played, and I stood looking out at the crowd singing the Swedish words. As we finished and were walking through the last seconds of pre-match, my eyes kept drifting across the pitch to where Alexia stood with her teammates. She was looking at me, too. Our eyes met for just a second, and I saw everything there, love and determination. This was what we'd worked for. This was why we'd pushed through the pain and the doubt and the endless hours of rehab. To be here. To compete at the highest level.
Even if it meant competing against each other.
The opening whistle blew.
The match was brutal from the first minute. Spain controlled possession the way they always did, patient and precise, while we sat deep and looked to counter. I chased Alexia's passes, tracked her runs, and every time we came close to each other on the pitch, there was this electric charge in the air of awareness and familiarity and something that felt almost like grief.
At halftime, it was 0-0. In the locker room, Peter talked tactics and adjustments, but I could barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes between us and a World Cup final.
The second half was more of the same, with Spain pressing and us defending, while the tension built with every passing minute. My legs were burning, my lungs screaming, but I kept running. Kept fighting. This was too important to give anything less than everything I had.
Then, in the 81st minute, it happened.
Spain worked the ball patiently across our defensive line, probing for weakness. Alexia dropped deep to receive a pass, turned, and suddenly there was space. She played it wide to Mariona, who crossed it low and hard into the box. Salma was there, and the ball was in the net before our goalkeeper could react.
1-0 Spain.
The Spanish players erupted in celebration. I watched Alexia get mobbed by her teammates, watched her smile, and felt something crack in my chest. I was happy for her; I was so proud of her, but I also wanted to scream.
"Come on! We're not done! Seven minutes! We can do this!"Â Filippa shouted across the pitch, clapping her hands
Seven minutes felt like both an eternity and no time at all. We pushed forward, desperate now, throwing everything at Spain's defence. The crowd was deafening, our fans screaming at us for an equalizer while the Spanish fans tried to will the clock forward.
Minute 88. Johanna won the ball in midfield and immediately looked up. I was making the run to time it perfectly, and her pass split two defenders. I took one touch to control it, another to set myself, and then I struck it.
The ball flew past Cata's outstretched hands and into the top corner for a goal.
1-1.
I didn't celebrate. There was no time. I grabbed the ball from the net and sprinted back to the centre circle, screaming at my teammates to get ready. Two minutes. We had two minutes to hold on and force extra time.
That was our plan, but Spain had other ideas.
They kicked off and immediately went on the attack. I tracked back, trying to help in the defense, but they were everywhere, passing, moving, probing. Alexia had the ball at the top of the box. I was ten meters away, too far to close her down, and I watched as she played a perfect through ball to Olga, who'd made a run behind our defence.
Olga took one touch and slotted it past ZeÄira.
2-1 Spain.
90th minute.
The referee added four minutes of stoppage time, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. We threw everything forward, but Spain held us back. When the final whistle blew, I was in Spain's half, having just taken a shot that sailed over the bar.
The sound of that whistle was the worst thing I'd ever heard.
My legs gave out instantly. I didn't decide to fall; my body just stopped working, and suddenly I was face-down in the grass, my hands pressed against the turf, my whole body shaking. We'd been so close. So, fucking close. Ninety seconds from extra time, from another chance, from maybe making it to the final, and now it was just all ... over.
I could hear the people around me, people were crying, Spanish players celebrating, and the roar of the crowd. Although I could hear it, it all felt so distant and muffled, like I was underwater. Someone touched my shoulder and said some words to try to get me to stand up, but I couldn't. I couldn't move. If I moved, if I stood up and faced this, then it would be real. At least if I stayed here, I didn't have to face it.
Another hand on my back with another voice. I ignored them all.
Then I felt it. A touch that was different from the others. This one was familiar. A hand running slowly down my spine, gentle and knowing, and a voice that cut through everything else.
"Lova."
Alexia.
"Lova, please. Look at me. Please"
I wanted to ignore her too. I wanted to stay here in the grass and pretend none of this was happening, but there was something in her voice, not triumph or pity, but a sense of hurt. She was hurting because I was hurting, and that made everything worse and better at the same time.
I pushed myself up slowly, my arms shaking with the effort. When I got to my feet, I crossed my arms over my chest, putting a physical barrier between us. Alexia stood in front of me in her red Spain kit, her face streaked with tears and mascara. Her happy tears,
"Lova..." she started.
"I'm mad at you right now," I said, and my voice came out harder than I meant it to. "I know you didn't score the goals yourself, but you did play a key role in them. I know you're just doing your job, and I would never expect you not to, but right now it hurts. Losing at this stage hurts a lot, particularly like this." My voice cracked on the last word. "So, I have the right to be mad at you for at least the next twenty-four hours, no matter how fucking proud of you I am."
Alexia's face crumpled. She didn't say anything, didn't try to defend herself or apologize or tell me it would be okay. She just stepped forward and pulled me into her arms.
I resisted for maybe half a second before I broke. My arms came around her, and I buried my face in her neck, breathing her in, letting her hold me together while I fell apart. She smelled like sweat and grass and that perfume she always wore, and I hated that even now, even in the middle of this devastation, being in her arms felt like coming home. They felt safe, and I felt so loved while they held me.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, amor," she whispered against my hair.
"Don't apologise for winning, that's stupid," I said, my voice muffled against her shoulder.
"I know, but I'm still sorry you're hurting."
We stood there for a long moment, holding each other in the middle of the pitch while chaos swirled around us. Eventually, I pulled back, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.
"You have to win this whole thing now," I said, trying to inject some firmness into my voice. "Do you hear me? If you don't win the final, I'm going to be really mad at you. When you come home, you'll find you'll have been replaced by Otto and Nala and that your new bed will be the couch."
Alexia laughed, and it was a watery, broken sound. "That's a lot of pressure."
"Good. You deserve it after breaking my heart today."
"I love you, Lo. So much. You know that, right?" she said, cupping my face in her hands.
"I know." I covered her hands with mine. "I love you too. Even though I hate you a little bit right now. I love you so much more than I could ever hate you."
"Only for twenty-four hours, though."
"Only for twenty-four hours," I confirmed.
She kissed my forehead, then my cheeks, and then my lips before she was pulled away by her teammates and swept up in their celebration, and I was left standing there watching her go.
Stina appeared at my side as she put her arm around my shoulders. "Come on. Let's go."
I let her lead me away, but I looked back once. Alexia was watching me, even in the middle of her team's joy, and when our eyes met, she pressed her hand to her heart.
I did the same.
Twenty-four hours. I could be mad for twenty-four hours.
--- ---Â
The Stadium Australia was absolutely packed with 75,000 people screaming as Spain and England battled it out in the final game of the World Cup. I sat next to Eli in the family section, holding onto her hand tighter than was probably safe for her circulation, with my heart in my throat as I watched every pass, every tackle, every near miss.
Sweden beat Australia yesterday in the third-place match. Bronze medals. It wasn't a final, and it wasn't the gold medal I'd dreamed of, but after the devastation of the semifinal, there was something healing about stepping onto the podium, about having something tangible to show for our tournament. The medal was tucked in my pocket, weighing down the right side of my coat.
Despite all my own excitement, right now, all I cared about was the woman in the red number 11 jersey orchestrating Spain's attack.
"She's playing so well,"Â Eli said beside me.
"She always does,"Â I said, my eyes never leaving Alexia.
The match was tense and physical, and both teams were desperate. England had their chances; Lauren Hemp hit the crossbar in the first half, which nearly caused me to have a heart attack, but Spain was controlling the game the way they always did. Patient. Precise. Deadly.
Then, in the 29th minute, it happened.
Mariona crossed the ball into the box. Olga was there, and suddenly the net was rippling as the ball came to sit at the back of it, and the Spanish section of the stadium lost its mind.
1-0 Spain.
I was on my feet, screaming, Eli beside me doing the same. We were still holding hands as we jumped about, hugging. Around us, Spanish families were crying, hugging, and celebrating. My heart was soaring even as a tiny part of me still ached from five days ago.
The second half was utter agony. England pushed hard, throwing everything forward, but Spain's defence held firm. Alexia was everywhere, winning balls, distributing passes, controlling the tempo. She was magnificent.
When the final whistle blew, I burst into tears.
Spain had won the World Cup.
Alexia had won the World Cup.
The pitch was utter chaos. Spanish players piled on top of each other, and English players collapsed in devastation. The trophy and medal ceremony wasn't much different. Players were climbing and jumping all over each other with confetti cannons exploding. I watched Alexia emerge from the pile of bodies, her face radiant with joy, and I wanted nothing more than to run down there and hold her.
After the air had settled, the English players had made their way into the changing room, and the Spanish team remained on the pitch, taking it all in.
"Come on," Eli said, tugging my hand. "They're letting family down."
We made our way down to the pitch access, showing our credentials to security. The field was packed with people now, players, staff, families, and media. I scanned the crowd, looking for my familiar figure in red.
Alexia was standing with some of her teammates, her gold medal already around her neck, and she was laughing at something Laia had said. She looked so happy, so free, so completely herself, and I felt my heart expand in my chest.
As if she could feel me watching, she turned. Our eyes met across the crowded pitch, and her whole face lit up.
She started walking toward me, and eventually we collided in the middle of the pitch, and she lifted me off my feet, spinning me around while I laughed and cried at the same time.
"You did it! You won! You actually won!" I said through the tears.
"I did," she said, setting me down but not letting go of me. She held me captive in her arms, but there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
"I'm so proud of you," I said, cupping her face in my hands. "So, fucking proud. You were incredible."
She kissed me then, right there in the middle of the pitch with 75,000 people watching and cameras everywhere, and I kissed her back as my life depended on it.
When we finally pulled apart, she was grinning. She reached up and lifted the gold medal from around her neck, holding it up between us.
"So," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Is this a good enough token for you? Do I get to sleep in our bed when we get home, or am I going to have to fight Otto and Nala for it back?"
I laughed a real, full laugh that came from somewhere deep in my chest. I reached into my coat and pulled out my bronze medal, the one I'd won yesterday, and held it up to mirror her pose.
"I think that your token is acceptable," I said slowly,
I pulled her close again, my arms around her waist, her arms around my neck, and we stood there swaying slightly in the middle of the pitch. Around us, the celebration continued: fireworks, music, laughter, tears, but in our little bubble, there was just us.
"I love you," I said against her ear. "Gold medal, bronze medal, no medal. I love you always."
"I love you too," she said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for being proud of me even when it hurt."
"Always. Even when you break my heart on the pitch, I'll always be proud of you." I promised.
"Same," she said. "Your bronze medal is just as beautiful as my gold one. You know that, right?"
"I know." I did. Standing here with her, wearing my medal while she wore hers, I understood that we'd both won something more important than any trophy. We'd won each other. We'd won the ability to compete fiercely and love deeply. We'd won the knowledge that we could face each other as opponents and still come home as partners.
"Come on," Alexia said, pulling back and taking my hand. "Come celebrate with us."
"Are you sure? This is your moment ... "
"Our moment," she corrected firmly. "Everything is our moment now, Lova. Haven't you figured that out yet?"
I let her lead me into the crowd of Spanish players and families. I thought about the journey that had brought us here, from adjacent lockers and Google Translate, through torn ACLs and months of rehab, through Paris and the Eiffel Tower, through domestic titles and now a World Cup.
We'd faced each other across a pitch in Auckland, and I'd told her I had the right to be mad for twenty-four hours.
Those twenty-four hours were long over.
Now there was only pride, and joy, and love, and the gold medal around her neck that she'd won, and the bronze medal around mine that I'd won, and the knowledge that whatever came next, we'd face it together.
it turns out that you're quite oblivious, which makes everything ten times harder for a certain nervy spaniard trying to learn english just for you. (5.5k - anon request!)
âShe left mid-date again? Really? Another one?â The stifled laugh down the phone was not what you wanted to hear at that moment. âTĂa, what the hell are you doing to these women?âÂ
You werenât sure how you ended up in Barcelona, nevermind being set up on blind dates by members of the current most successful team in Europe. You werenât even sure if Jana was actually your cousin or not at this point.Â
âBecause I donât speak their language and I mess things up every time! Itâs not funny, Jana, it really hurts.â You mumbled, kicking at a non-existent stone as you walked home from another failed date.
The third failed date. And possibly the most embarrassing thus far.
Date one was at a restaurant, whose quaint exterior led you to falsely believe that inside, it was quiet and jovial and wholesome. No. Your dateâs order came wrong twice, your non-alcoholic cocktail had alcohol in it, and the owners blasted music so. loud. that you couldnât even hear your own thoughts, nevermind the woman across from you. Which, rather unfortunately, resulted in an awkward situation. You had asked her to repeat herself three times, and still you didnât catch what she said. So, you went for what you thought was a safe bet, in which you laughed to brush it off, except you did in a way that could only be described as a mocking and villainous cackle. After which, your date had stated in Spanish âThis is my first date since my divorce.âÂ
It was no surprise she walked out afterwards.
âMaybe youâre cursed or something.â Jana offered helpfully, wincing when you scoffed sharply.
âNo, itâs not me, itâs them! Where are you finding them?â
Date two, however⌠that was entirely your fault. You had been slacking with learning Spanish since moving there, claiming to be too tired from your studies to find time and brain space for them. Which meant, when you were faced with an entirely Spanish-speaking date, there wasnât really a way to communicate. She did her best, until she reached her final straw as you offered to get out Google Translate so you could talk properly. She took one glance at her phone and claimed âfamily problemâ in the thickest accent you had ever heard, before standing from her chair which pushed back with a screech that sliced throughout the room.
That was an awkward one.
âWell, Vicky came up with an idea-â
âOh, for fuckâs sake. Do I even want to know?âÂ
âWe made a Tinder profile for you.âÂ
You wished you never asked.
But, that did explain the strange pool of people youâd been paired with. Turns out it was just blind leading the blind. And your final date was a classic Tinder pull.Â
She sat down. Kept her phone face up on the table within reach, glancing at it every five seconds when it lit up with new notifications. You asked questions, receiving short answers like it was a Vogue 73 Questions video. Then, you heard a ping sound that sounded ever-so-similar to the aforementioned app, and just like that she was up out her chair, like the others, and out with a laugh as her thumbs moved fast against the screen of her phone.Â
âJana⌠this is getting ridiculous. I canât even speak to most of them. Whether itâs because of a language barrier or because I just make a fool of myself, not a single second of the dates goes right.âÂ
The first occasion was funny, you could laugh about it over dinner and drinks with Jana and her friends from the team. After that though, your confidence and dignity took a jab each time. The idea of another blind date made you sick to your stomach.Â
âWell, I told you to ask Ale to teach you some things in return. Spanish is not hard to learn, you know.âÂ
Thatâs right. Alexia.
Thankfully you didnât meet her on another blind date, no. Instead, you were invited to a night out at a bar with the team before the season started, not long after youâd moved to the city on a whim for a year of your studies. Youâd known Jana forever, and there was actually a good chance she could be a distant cousin, but who knows and who cares, because she offered you the perfect escape just when you needed it.Â
Starting a whole new degree in your late twenties was never part of the original plan, nor was moving to Barcelona in your third year of it. But those two surprises paled in comparison to the blind dates that were apparently part of Janaâs deal for moving.
Alexia had become a⌠strange friend. That first night at the bar had felt both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday.
âHola.â Sheâd smiled, awkwardly first, then brightly when you reciprocated it. âYou⌠Janaâs prima? Yes?â
The bar hadnât been madly loud, but her voice was much quieter than the rest of the room, like she was nervous to speak. Whether to you, or in a mix of languages, you werenât sure.
Youâd nodded anyway, still smiling. âThatâs me.â
She hesitated, unsure where to go next. All she knew was that she couldnât tear her eyes away.Â
âI⌠see you, in games, the year last. You very loud.â You laughed, and the sound made her laugh too, though she was the only one that adorned a pink tinge to her cheeks after.
She hadnât been wrong then, when referring to the few trips youâd made to watch Jana and the team, and she still wasnât wrong. You were passionate about the team, and you did exactly what every passionate fan would do at a game. Scream when something went wrong and scream when something went right. Swear at the referee even if a blaugrana player gave an Olympic dive.
And for some reason, after that night at the bar where the two of you were nearly inseparable, there was a text on your phone the next morning from Jana asking for a peculiar request.
Alexia has asked for English lessons, if you will teach her. You are studying education, it could be good no?
Yeah, childrenâs education. Not for a 31 year old two time Ballon dâOr winner.
âŚnot that it stopped you from saying yes.
âI forget. We just get distracted, end up talking, her with her broken English. She tries so hard, bless her, and asks me the most random things.â You adjusted your bag on your shoulder as you walked through the streets back to your flat, shoes clapping against the tiles with every step.Â
âWhat kind of things?âÂ
You rounded the street corner onto the road your apartment complex was on, and thought for a moment to gather your thoughts in response to Janaâs question.Â
There was a variety of random things; phrases that didnât exactly align with her goal of learning English for the sake of interviews and networking.Â
âWell⌠I donât know, just odd and out of the blue. Last time she asked me to tell her how to say âI like spending time with youâ in English. Same with âyou are beautifulâ and âI feel comfortable with you.â Why does she want to say all this to journalists? Does she have a thing for them or something?âÂ
The sound of a light slap came over the phone lineâ you, blissfully unaware it was Jana putting a hand over her eyes in speechless disappointment.Â
âNo, tĂa, she does not have a thing for journalists.â She sighed, desperately holding herself back from blurting the one thing that would save everyone a considerable amount of time.Â
The blind dates? Merely a tactic to wear you down whilst Alexia could be there to pick up the pieces. Alexia wasnât exactly aware that was the reason, all that she knew was that from the first time she met you, she needed an excuse to see you again. And again. And again. Hence the English lessons.
Was it a slightly sadistic plan on Jana and the younger member of the teamâs behalf? Possibly, but they had a self-imposed boundary of no more than five dates. They assumed things would be a bit more fast moving than they currently were, but⌠you were completely and pitifully oblivious. If things did drag on until after the fifth, they would have to come up with an interventionâ for the sake of Alexiaâs sanity, and your confidence.
âThen why is she asking them?â You muttered, huffing as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder again, more of a restless tic than necessity. Before Jana could start rambling about some made up, irrelevant reason â because she had a habit of doing so â you spoke again. âYou know what? I donât want to know, and I donât care. She can have the English lessons, what she does with them is not my business. What is my business is these stupid blind dates, and I donât want them anymore. Iâm done.â
Jana hardly flinched, because she knew that this same time next week, she would be having the same conversation. Just like she had for the last three weeks. So, she indulged, because she could. Because she thrived on it, and it was that same teasing that was slowly bringing you and Alexia together. Give it a few years and youâd be thanking her on your wedding day.
âLook, you are not getting any younger.âÂ
You stopped in the middle of the street. Moved your phone from your ear to in front of you and glared at it like she could see you.Â
âExcuse me?âÂ
âYou heard me.â All you could hear was the smirk on her face as you resumed your walk home, steps slow and precise through pure anger.
âNo. I donât want any more blind dates set up by teenagers.â You scowled at the laugh that burst out of her, loud enough that you had to pull your phone from your ear once more.
âWeâre not teenagers!âÂ
âYou are compared to me!â You snapped, shaking your head at her continued laughter. âIâm old!â
âOh, please.â Jana paused. Her grin grew. âAlexia is only a few months older.âÂ
âDonât bring her into this.â You muttered. Ears turning red before you could do anything about it.
âMmhm. Sure.â Janaâs voice was sly, the kind of tone that made you want to hang up and never answer her call again. âAnyway, you can yell at me all you want, but weâre not the problem here.âÂ
You groaned at her, cursing her under your breath, and reached into your bag for your keys as you entered your apartment building. âWhatever. I donât care. No more dates. I mean it, Jana.â
âFine, fine.â Another pause. âIâll make sure next weekâs date is a good one. Iâll speak to y-â
âOh no, sorry- Iâm about to get into the elevator, the signal is going! Bye, Jana.â You hung up and rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. âFucking kids.âÂ
Waiting in the metal box as it skimmed past other floors was demoralising. Nothing but you and the lingering echo of the failed dates so far. Itâd be the same when you finally do get to your flat too; you will walk around and wind down for the night, your only company being every embarrassing moment from each night.Â
You barged your shoulder into your door a little harder than necessary when it finally unlocked. You placed your bag on the drawers by the door, shrugged off your jacket onto the wall hooks, and barely even flinched when that very item fell to the floor moments later. Wasnât the only thing that had given up on you that night, or the last few weeks.Â
Then, you paused in the entryway between the living area and the kitchen. Both were dark. Both quiet and still. Lifeless, cold, boring and alone. Your kitchen counters and the small breakfast bar was covered in books, notepads, stationary, binders. All University stuff, compared to your lounge coffee table. That had some of Alexiaâs English work on it, leftover from the previous night.Â
You wandered over to your sofa and slumped down onto it. Pulled your phone out. Hesitated with thumbing in your pass code. When you finally had the gall to do it, as simple as it may have been, you headed straight to one place.Â
Are you free right now? I am, if youâd like an extra lesson.
An open invite, because you were too afraid to give in completely to whatever the reason your wish for her company was. Her reply was clockwork.Â
Por supuesto, gracias :)
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at your door.Â
Youâd changed your clothes whilst you were waiting for her, hence the-
âYou⌠comfy.âÂ
-that she greeted you with, along with a relaxed and fond smile youâd grown to like the sight of. You brushed off the once over she gave you and pinned it down to her teasing matters only as you tugged at your sleeve cuff.
âIâve told you, the more you tease, the less chance Iâll go easy on you.â You warned lightly, stepping aside to let her in.
âNo, no easy.â She preened, competitive and determined as ever. She went to head towards your lounge like she always did before your hand out stopped her.
âDid you bring any of your things?â You asked with an eyebrow raised and a nod of your head down to her empty hands.
She grimaced, then slowly shook her head, both of which were unnecessarily charming. â...I forget.â
You rolled your eyes, but of course let her get away with it as you led her to the sofa. Alexia sat first, and you followed suitâ a comfortable gap between you both, but closer than one might expect, or be deemed as just friendly. The brunette rested her foot on her knee, leaned back against the cushions with her hands clasped over her stomach. You were perched on the edge, reaching for the papers off the table and one of the many pens strewn around.Â
âLo siento, profesora.â She paired the low-toned apology with a grin, both of which had your hand faltering where it reached out. Her words got under your skin a little, for one reason you knew for sure (irritation, very slightly) and another less⌠clear reason.Â
âYouâre lucky I still have some here. Take this, this, and lean on that.â You handed her a sheet she left half-finished last time â the pair of you may have ended up watching a film instead â as well as a pen and a random book you paid no mind to when picking it. Apparently, she did.
ââHow to⌠raise a toddler.ââ She read aloud, accent curling around the words endearingly and eyebrows knitted together as she did so. After she finished, she turned to you with a frown on her face. âYou have something to tell?âÂ
For a moment, you stared at her blankly. Until you realised what she was hinting at.
âI donât have a child, you idiot. Itâs just extra reading for my studies.â You rolled your eyes again, for the hundredth time that day. She let out a soft sound of realisation that left you fighting off a smile. âCome on, concentrate. Get through that and we can move on.â
There was probably all of two minutes of her pen scribbling on the page before she hummed, like she sometimes did before speaking.
âHow was your day?â She wondered, head dropping back against the cushions as she looked at you.
âFine. Thank you. Now work.â You told her. Strict. And very clearly avoiding the main event of the day. Alexia, though she wouldn't admit it aloud, wasn't so disheartened at the prospect of another failed date.
âI am practicing. Conversation.â She argued, practicing her act of faux innocence with the way she shrugged her shoulders blamelessly.
âYou can practice your conversation after youâve done that sheet.âÂ
With a dramatic huff, she turned back to her sheet.Â
âYou no ask for my day.â She grumbled under her breath rather theatrically.Â
That time, you didnât bother to hide it. The smile came easy, and your voice softened just the slightest bit when you finally returned the question.
âAnd how was your day, Alexia?â You turned to look at her and she did the same, though it was only a glance as she turned back to her paper with a smug expression.
âFine. Thank you. Now, I do the work.âÂ
You couldnât help but laugh quietly at her. Alexia didnât look up from her page, but the corner of her mouth pulled higher, betraying how she tried to hide her satisfaction at pulling the noise from you. You felt the warmth in your chest that had been simmering in the background deepen, that same warmth and contentment that was always there whenever you were with Alexia. Before you could think too hard about it, you shifted a little closer and propped your elbow on the back of the couch to watch her write.
At some point, a minute or two later, you realised you were distracting her. The sheet crinkled beneath her hand as she readjusted with every line she went down, and her writing was slightly uneven. So, in an attempt to give her room to concentrate, you got your phone out and started flipping absentmindedly between apps. Yet, unbeknownst to you, it wasnât you watching her that was distracting. It was just you overall. She attempted to discreetly steal glances with each full stop of her writing, thinking you wouldnât notice. You did, just pretended not to, eye stuck to your phone as if you had a dozen better things to do.
Still, you felt her there. The lightest of brushes of her jacket sleeve against your elbow, the faint tap of her pen against the paper when she was thinking, even the slow exhale she gave when she finally finished a line. It wasnât exactly a silence between you both, just a lived-in, comfortable quiet that had formed and grown between the two of you over the weeks. A quiet you werenât used to sharing with many people.
You scrolled aimlessly, not reading a thing, aware of how feeble your focus was when she was beside you. Your mind drifted, to the memories of the last couple weeks and the scattered texts here and there too. The phrases she would ask and how random they seemed. The way she had smiled gratefully when you chose a film the night before and put the Spanish subtitles on for her, deeming the lesson over. The worksheets had been abandoned halfway through that evening for an awfully cheesy rom-com, where she laughed at all the wrong moments and made you laugh just because she was.
Her knee shifted slightly at one moment, grazing yoursâ deliberate or not, you couldnât tell. She didnât move away though, and after a brief moment of internal panic, you didnât either. Instead, you let the contact exist. Let yourself enjoy it, even.Â
Alexiaâs pen paused again, her brows furrowed in concentration. She bit her lip as she read back what sheâd written, and you caught yourself watching the curve of her mouth before forcing your gaze away. It wasnât the first time you had caught yourself doing that, and so what if you didnât want it to be the last.
When she finally leaned back, paper and book balanced on her thigh, she let out a small sigh that was half exasperation and half satisfaction. Immediately, you put your phone face down on the sofa, giving her your full attention without a hint of a second thought. Which is ridiculous, you believe, that you do that. Why do you do it? And why does it feel so natural?
âTerminado.â She said, quietly proud at her work as she handed the sheet to you so you could look over it.
Throughout the weeks, there was one mistake that Alexia always made, without fail. The best part was that it wasnât on purpose, it was completely accidental. You didnât like it because it was funny, you liked it because it was so very human of someone so perfect in her stardom.
âAle, youâve done it again. Every time!â You laughed gently, pointing to three different lines of the page where sheâd made the mistake. Each instance where she had to translate âandâ she forgot, instead just keeping the âyâ of the Spanish. She groaned loudly, throwing her head back and slapping a hand over her face as she cursed the English language out under her breath.Â
âIt is more easy! More quick! And sound better!â She argued, shoulders up to her ears as her hands waved about like she was stating her case against a referee.Â
âYouâre right, but youâre not correct.â You continued laughing as you skimmed through the rest of the sheet. Alexia hastily forgot her grievances with the language when she saw the amusement clear as day on your face once she removed her hand.
Eventually, to put Alexia out of her misery, you finished checking her answers.Â
âI do well?â She asked, hopeful through her humour, and it made you smile.
âYou did. Very well. Youâre getting better.â You complimented truthfully. Though, you ignored the fluttery feeling in your stomach at the light coating of pink that dusted her cheeks at the sincerity.Â
âGracias, profesora.â Alexia hummed with a startlingly soft gaze. She had paused, as if deciding whether to say something or not. Ultimately, she went with it, it seemed. âYou are good teacher. After Uni, you will be good teacher. Very good. Best.â
ââThe bestâ is high praise from the best.â You teased, watching how she chuckled and glanced away at the fellow praise. You saved her her dignity and moved on quickly. âSince weâve no more sheets for you because you forgot to bring them, we can do some more phrases if youâd like. Your random phrases that make it sound like youâre flirting with journalists.â
Alexia tried to hide her gawping at your claim. How were you still so oblivious that they were for you? The night before, sheâd asked for the translation of her proudest compliment yet, the most truthful one. And it was so painfully lost on you.
âHow I say⌠me siento cĂłmodo contigo?â Sheâd asked, after waiting all night to build up the courage to ask. Instead of a blush or a shy smile she hoped to receive as the penny finally dropped for you, she got this-
âAw, thatâs so sweet that you have a journalist you feel like that with.â Youâd responded, before giving her the answer. âI feel comfortable with you."
She grew concerned, in that moment, that you were blind too. Given how you missed the deadpan and politely maddened look on her face as a result of your utter obliviousness.
âWhy do you want to know all these odd phrases anyway?â You wondered, elbow back on the sofa cushions as you rested your chin on your hand to look at her.
The question was asked offhandedly, like you werenât really expecting much of an answer from her apart from the one youâd already hadâ that they were just for interviews and things like that.
Alexia decided, there and then, that sheâd had enough.Â
The brunette hesitated. Held your gaze. Glanced away for the briefest second as she tapped her fingers on her thigh nervously, before she went back to her gaze.
âFor you.âÂ
That, of course, was the furthest thing from what you expected to hear her say.Â
You blinked at her. She blinked at you.Â
âWhat do you mean?â You asked delicately, voice a slightly higher pitch than normal.
Alexia had to hold in a groan that desperately wanted to escape.
âI ask these things⌠for you. No journalists. You.âÂ
Given that you hadnât had much of a negative reaction yet, she took that as a good sign. So, she shuffled closer again, Alexiaâs shoulder pressing against your elbow that still rested against the sofa cushions. In your shocked silence, her confidence grew slightly.Â
Time to put her practice to good use.
âYou are beautiful.â She started. You swallowed a quiet gulp at both her words and how she was looking at you. âAnd⌠I feel comfortable with you. Is⌠different, to others. I worry about my English but you help, and you make me feel comfortable. I trust you. I like the way you laugh, and smile. I never want this time with you to end. You are important to me, you make me happy. I⌠want to make you happy.â
Your blush was so intense, you swore she could probably feel the heat radiating off you. The feeling in your stomach of butterflies was the strongest it had ever been, and your breath caught with every phrase she said, now that they were directed entirely, purposefully, only at you.
You were surprised at the revelation initially, but the longer you stayed in her gaze, the more that feeling passed. At her admission, everything suddenly felt as if⌠it had clicked into place. A lightbulb moment. And it filled you with both a calmness and an excitement that you wanted to drown in, indulge in.Â
âYou⌠like me?â You whispered, breathless, wanting to ensure you hadnât misread the situation.Â
That same groan returned for Alexia, though she managed to stifle it once more. It was reaching its breaking point, however.
She nodded, with a soft and nervous smile. âI like me.â
You both paused. Alexia frowned like she knew something wasnât quite right about that declaration, but couldnât figure it out immediately.Â
When she did, after a few seconds of you trying to contain your laughter, she groaned suddenly and scrambled to make up for her error.
âNo! I like you. Not me. I have a⌠crush.âÂ
You laughed with her, not at her, and she joined in almost instantly. Couldnât resist when you sounded like you did.Â
After the bravery sheâd built up to to tell you that, the hard work sheâd put in just to tell you in your own language, it suddenly made the idea of admitting to your feelings much less daunting. She was right there with you.
âI like you too, Alexia.â You reciprocated, catching her slightly off-guard and delighting in the shy smile she gave. That shyness then carried over into her next words.
âHow to say⌠âhe querido besarte desde que nos conocimos.ââ Still shy, but full of intent. You felt like you must have been red from head to toe with how much you were blushing.
âI have wanted to kiss you since we first met.â You told her. The grin she replied with, as if sheâd just scored a blinder of a free-kick, was rather unexpected.
âReally?â She teased with an eyebrow raised, and you realised then that you had been played.Â
You rolled your eyes as you laughed, glancing away sheepishly even though the words were entirely true on your behalf too. Lightly, you nudged at her knee in retaliation, something that only humoured her more.
Then, the laughter faded. Alexiaâs gaze turned steady again, not serious in her demeanour but with enough candour in her expression that you focused on her entirely. As if there was anything else you could focus on then.
âI have wanted to kiss you since we first met.âÂ
The statement didnât come as a surprise, but with how truthful and genuine she uttered it, it still landed hard.
You found yourself nodding easily, bottom lip caught between your teeth in a mix of nerves and anticipation. Alexia started to lean in, and you did too, untilâŚ
âHang on.â You blurted out, suddenly covering her mouth with your hand. âYouâve had over three weeks to prepare yourself to kiss me. Iâve had about three minutes.â
Alexia chuckled into your palm, not at all annoyed, and gently took your hand away with a fond shake of her head. âYou are ridiculous.â
The accented lilt in her murmur made you want to forget everything that had been said so far and just kiss her.
She read that on your face shockingly well. She smiled affectionately, and raised her eyebrows in patient expectation.
âSo, I kiss you now?â The midfielder asked politely. You couldnât exactly speak, though, due to your frozen nature. You just stared. In turn, that made her frown again, wondering if sheâd gotten her words confused again. â...beso?â
You snapped out of whatever trance you were in and exhaled a laugh through your nose, nodding with a composed urgency that made Alexia grin brightly. Then, she controlled herself, tempering her grin into something smaller, softer, more fit for purpose.Â
One hand fell to your knee, and the other landed deftly on your cheek. Your arms hardly moved, too stunned, but when she leaned in, your arm that had been resting on the sofa cushions wrapped loosely around her shoulders. Her lips met yours with a delicate brush first, shy and nervous, until she felt you melt into it almost instantly. Then, she pulled back for half a second just so she could go into it again with a little more firmness. You met it and matched it, losing yourself in the careful and precise way her mouth moved against yours.
It didnât once feel rushed, or like anything less than perfect. It deepened slowly, naturally, and her lips were pliant against yours. You both moved seamlessly, like it was a dance youâd done a thousand times before. The feel of her hand on your cheek was both grounding and left you feeling like you were soaring, and it was the same for her with the way your fingers lightly brushed through the hair at the nape of her neck. A soft exhale left her nose when you grasped a touch tighter there after a particularly mind-melting movement of her lips, and the small notion sent shivers down your back.Â
Finally, when you pulled back a fraction, breathing the same air as you rested your forehead against hers, you knew the look in her eyes mirrored yours. Pupils slightly blown, and a mixture of intoxicating adoration as well as a deep-rooted relief present on both your faces.
âI canât believe youâve wanted to kiss me since the bar. We could have done this a month ago.â You commented, still a little dazed. Alexia chuckled once more, though there seemed to be something on her mind. So you leaned back, your arm falling to your lap and hers from your cheek finding its new place atop yours. âWhat is it?â
âYour blind datesâŚâ She started timidly. âJana want me to do⌠be first.âÂ
You stared at her, wide-eyed, the realisation settling in rather quick.Â
âYou could have been my first blind date? That was Janaâs real plan with all that?â She nodded solemnly, and you huffed. âSo I could have had a nice date with you instead of the embarrassing three Iâve had?â
The midfielder, smart in her ways, chose to ignore your outrage and take the pair of you down a different avenue.
âNice, eh?â She smirked cheekily, catching you out on your barely-there admission that you wanted a date with her, and had been wanting one since the dates started. You slapped her arm lightly, delighting in the way she laughed afterwards.
Then your eyes narrowed suddenly as you began to piece it all together. Alexia gulped dramatically under your accusatory glare. âSo these English lessons were just a ploy.â
Her face pinched in confusion that you werenât exactly surprised byâ it was a rather weird word.Â
âPloy?â She repeated, testing it out on her tongue and wondering what on earth it could mean.
âAn excuse. A strategic tactic.â Of course football terms resonated with her.
âUn poco.â She shrugged initially, before softening. âI want know you. No blind date. Just⌠normal.â You couldnât fault her for that. âBut also⌠is helpful. The lessons. I enjoy them. Because is with you.âÂ
Nor could you fault her for that either. So instead of lingering on it any longer and pretending to be mad with how it all played out, you gave her a smirk Alexia was beginning to grow familiar withâ it often led to you teasing her. Which it did.
âAre you going to ask me to tell you how to say âI want to take you on a dateâ now?â You grinned, thinking youâd caught her out. Even in another language, she was always one step ahead of you.
âYou already tell me, just now.â She was proud of that one, and you didnât have it in you to roll your eyes that time. Still, she felt inclined to ask it, something that made your cheeks warm again and your answer nearly catch in your throat. âI want to take you on a date.â
There was no hesitation with your answer. âThen take me on a date, Alexia.â
a certain not-so-nervy-anymore spaniard, whose english has somewhat improved, shows up for you right when you expect it least and want it most. (just 6k of utterly soft domesticity)
The words on the page had ceased making sense about an hour ago. And now, they were just black ink bleeding into the white glare of your laptop screen, a blur of developmental psychology terms that seemed to mock your rising panic.
You dragged both hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you saw static; desperate to shut out the reality of how little you were retaining.
The apartment was suffocatingly quiet. A dead silence that only ever accumulated during exam season, broken by the barely there noise off the kitchen appliances and the frantic tapping of your own foot against the table leg.
You glanced at your lifeless phone. No notifications still, despite sending a text forty minutes ago thatâd had your heart guiltily thumping against your ribs ever since.
(You)
Iâm so sorry, Ale. I canât make it tonight. My brain is completely fried, I still have three chapters to get through, and Iâm just a total mess. Iâm so, so sorry to ruin our plans.
And below it, the little blue ticks to confirm sheâd read it.Â
No reply at all. Not even a quick âno worriesâ or anything.
A fresh wave of anxiety, somehow bigger than each one before it, washed over you. It crashed right into your stomach, leaving you with a nauseating pit that made it a little more difficult to breathe. You groaned, slumping forward until your forehead hit the cool wood of the coffee table, right next to a scattered pile of papers and highlighter pens.Â
You couldnât even blame her.Â
It was supposed to be a real date. A reservation at a restaurant sheâd been on the waiting list for for weeks, a proper night together away from your university exam revision and her grueling football schedule. Sheâd been so excited about it, her eyes lighting up when she told you sheâd finally secured a table, and you had just stomped all over it.
A perfect night ruined because you couldnât balance your own life.
Fucking idiot, you muttered to yourself, the silence of the flat swallowing the curse whole.Â
Things were still incredibly new. Youâd only officially been her girlfriend for a month. You were still in that beautiful, slightly fragile phase where you wanted to be perfect for her, where every shared look still made your stomach flip.Â
Yet here you were, screwing things up already. Showing her exactly how chaotic and unreliable you were.
Why would a two-time Ballon dâOr winner want to deal with someone who couldnât even manage a basic university timetable?
You forced yourself back up, a dull throbbing beginning in your temples as you stared miserabley at a paragraph on cognitive milestones.
Except, the guilt made it impossible to focus. The words just continued to blur until they were a grey smudge on the screen.Â
All that was running through your mind was the image of Alexia in the midst of getting ready â maybe standing in front of a mirror, dressed up and putting in her hoop earrings, checking her phone only to find your pathetic message.
You could practically see the disappointment dropping over her face, the way sheâd probably sigh, take her earrings back out, change into sweatpants. Annoyed at wasting her time dressing up for someone that couldnât even get through their University work.Â
The thought made your throat tighten all over again, frustration burning behind your eyes. But you quickly blinked it away, angry at yourself for being so emotional.
You reached blindly for your coffee mug, only to find it bone-dry, the dark ring at the bottom completely cold. Great. Even your caffeine had given up on you now.
You were just about to stand up, to wander aimlessly to the kettle just for something to do that wasnât going square-eyed staring at your laptop for so long, when a knock echoed from the front door.
Your foot stopped its tapping as you froze. And the knock came again.Â
Your mind couldnât quite process the math of it as you walked toward the entryway, your socks sliding slightly on the wooden floorboards. You unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the door open, and the breath caught in your throat.
You stared at the figure before you, completely paralysed, your hand grasped around the edge of the wood as your eyes mapped the person standing in your doorway.
It was Alexia.Â
But not the version of her your guilt-ridden brain had spent the last forty-five minutes torturing you with.
She was dressed in a matching grey Nike hoodie and joggers, casual but still effortlessly clean. Her hair â clearly freshly washed and freshly straightened - was pulled into a quick loose bun, a few stray pieces framing her face.Â
Her makeup was minimal but polished, the soft tint on her lips and the liner that sat above her mascara-coated lashes showing she had definitely taken the time to get ready for you tonight.Â
And nestled right against the line of her jaw, were the silver hoop earrings youâd envisioned her tearing out in frustration. She hadnât taken them out at all.
Your attention dropped down, taking in her hands. A delicate watch on one wrist, a couple rings decorating her fingers, and a plastic bag from the local supermarket bursting to the brim in her arms.Â
âWhatâŚâ Your voice was thick, cracking around the syllable as you gripped the door a little tighter. You swallowed hard, trying to force your brain to catch up with your eyes. âWhat are you doing here, Alexia?âÂ
The brunette didnât look angry. Nor did she look disappointed.
Instead, an awfully warm grin broke across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes as she took in your messy attire and the sheer unfiltered panic radiating off you. She shifted the weight of the shopping bag in her arms, her head tilting slightly to the side.
âHola, guapa,â She beamed, her Spanish accent heavy but comforting. âYou no go to restaurant, so the restaurant go to you.â
The lightheartedness of it, the ease, only made the knot in your chest twist painfully. You shook your head, stepping back a bit but not letting her in just yet, your hand lifting to rub at your temple where a stress headache was definitely firmly embedding itself.
âAle, no, you donât understand,â You whispered, voice dangerously wobbly. âI canât. The exam is in three days. I still have three massive chapters to go over again, and⌠Iâm just an absolute mess. Iâm⌠I canât be a good girlfriend tonight.â
Her easy grin faltered, her lips turning downwards and her eyebrows knitting together into a deep, almost comical frown. She looked at you as if youâd just said the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard in her life.
âQuĂŠ?â She said, her head jerking back a little. She adjusted the bag against her hip, refusing to let you push her away with your panic. When she spoke again, her voice was firm, her broken English coming out with a fierce and protective cadence. âYou no good girlfriend? What is this?â
She stepped closer, forcing you to look at her, her eyes flashing with a mix of stubbornness and overwhelming affection.
âBeing good girlfriend is no about⌠going to fancy place, wear nice outfit, makeup,â Alexia argued, stumbling a little over the words, but pushing through with absolute determination. She tilted her head further, her gaze softening more as she took in your wilted posture. âYou are stressed. Your brain is⌠loud. My job is be here. I am good girlfriend when you are happy, and I am more good girlfriend when you are a mess. Entiendes?âÂ
The bluntness of her declaration, delivering in that earnest accented lilt, struck you directly in the chest. It caused a hot blush to creep up your neck, warming your cheeks even as the threatening tears from earlier finally spilled over your eyelashes.
âAleâŚâ You breathed, a watery helpless sound escaping you.Â
âNo, no âAle,ââ she countered, though her comically stern expression completely cracked at the sight of your tears. Her eyes melted into something incredibly tender, a low sigh escaping her. âYou.. you are stupid.â
You blinked through your emotion, caught off-guard.Â
âThatâs⌠thatâs not very nice.â You whispered, the sentence cracking completely as a tiny tearful laugh hitched in your throat.Â
An amused but apologetic smile took over her face. âLo siento. PerdĂłn.âÂ
She didnât wait for your permission this time; she gently nudged her shoulder against yours, stepping past you and into the quiet of your apartment towards the kitchen.
She set the bag down on the counter with a thud. But didnât start unpacking. Instead, she turned around and walked right back to where you were standing by the now closed door.
Then, she closed the distance between you, stepping into your space until there was nowhere else you could look but at her. She reached out, her hands landing to rest gently on your hips, and her thumbs began to stroke slow soothing circles over your shirt.
âTell me,â She started in a quiet tone, head dropping as she tried to catch your downcast eyes. âWhat is wrong? Where this come from, hm?âÂ
It was the softest voice you had ever heard her use. The low timber of her accent wrapped around you like a blanket, completely stripping away whatever remaining defenses you had.
Your bottom lip quivered, and you quickly looked away, staring hard at the zipper of her grey hoodie because looking at her face was simply too dangerous.Â
âIâm just stressed, Ale,â you mumbled, barely above a whisper. âMy head is spinning. I canât focus on⌠on anything.â
âIs only exam stress?â She asked softly, her thumbs never stopping their steady motion against your hips. She nudged her head lower, trying to coax your gaze back up. âOnly University? Or something more?â
Another blush took over as you gathered the honest answer together.Â
âNo, itâs⌠weâre still so new,â You admitted dejectedly. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes still glued to her zip. âWeâve only been together a month. I⌠donât want you to see me like this. A disaster.âÂ
Alexia let out a hummed breath, her grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.Â
âA disaster?â She repeated, her tone teasing but still terribly gentle.
âYes.â You muttered, a tear escaping and tracing a path down your cheek. âI donât like anyone seeing me like this. I like to be theâ the organised one. I try to have my life together. But instead youâre here looking perfect for a date and Iâm just crying on my own in my apartment whilst studying.â
A tut escaped Alexia before she could stop it, a single disappointed, or disbelieving, click of her tongue. She let go of one of your hips and her hand travelled up your arm to carefully cradle your cheek. Her thumb caught the tear before it could reach your jaw, her skin warm and palm slightly calloused.
âLook at me, please.â She whispered.
You hesitated, but the quiet command in her voice was impossible to resist.
Slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet hers. Her expression was devoid of the amusement from earlier; it was just pure sincerity.Â
âI no like hearing this,â She said. âYou think I only want you⌠when you perfect? When everything easy? No.â She shook her head as a small line appeared between her brows. âI know you work hard. I see it, I see how much you care. Thisâ this is you, too. And I want all you. You stressed, you crying. Everything.â
Your heart skipped every other beat in a way that surely wasn't healthy, the rapid thumping of it echoing right up into your throat. It was impossible to comprehend how someone could look at you at your absolute worst and say something so effortlessly heavy, so entirely grounding.
You didn't know what to reply. Your brain, completely fried from hours of staring at cognitive development models, couldn't formulate a proper, poetic response.
Instead, you just swallowed past the lump in your throat and offered a tentative, âIf you say so.â
âOye,â Alexia murmured instantly, the single word sharp enough to catch you by surprise. Her thumb gave a reassuring swipe against your cheekbone, ensuring you kept your eyes locked onto hers.
âI do,â She said, her gaze steady, intense, and utterly unwavering. âI say so. YouâŚâ She stopped, taking a deep, determined breath in, her chest rising against yours as she gathered her English words together. â...you no choice but to agree. Yes?â
A breathless giggle slipped past your lips.Â
The sheer stubbornness of her, the competitive and unyielding spirit of Alexia Putellas being pointed entirely at making you feel loved â was ridiculous in the best possible way.
You let your head nod just once. And her face lit up with that beaming grin that completely creased her glinting eyes again.
âPerfecta.â She declared, her hand sliding down from your cheek to rest back on your hip, giving you a playful squeeze. âSo, I stay. I make you feel better, I cook dinner. And, most important, I keep you smiling.âÂ
The warmth in your chest was such a fire it was almost dizzying. You couldnât help but smile, a genuine one this time, even as you decided to tease her just a little bit more to keep your own emotions from boiling over again.Â
âI also donât have a choice in any of these things, either?â You joked, raising an eyebrow.Â
Her grin widened, her chest puffing out slightly with playful authority.Â
âNo,â She said, leaning in a fraction closer. âAbâ ab⌠ab-so-luty not.âÂ
She stumbled over the syllables, but she didnât even care, looking incredibly proud of her attempt anyway and how it elicited another laugh from you. The sheer fondness in her eyes made you feel like you were soaring.
And before you could say anything in reply, she leaned in. Her hands left your hips and slid up your neck to cradle both your cheeks. Her palms were warm still, her touch soft as she gently angled your head up, tilting her own to meet you.
The kiss she gave you was slow, gently, but deeply telling. It wasnât rushed or demanding; it was a grounding press of her lips against yours that seemed to carry the full weight of everything she had just promised. You let your eyes drift shut, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against her wrists as you melted into the solid comfort of her presence.
When she pulled back, she didnât go far. She kept her hands cradling your face, her thumbs moving in a similar way as they did earlier as she rested her forehead against yours.
âI like spend time with you.â She whispered. âIn⌠in any way. It no have to be⌠glamorous.â
She paused and frowned.
â...glamorous?âÂ
A quiet giggled escaped you at the pronunciation, the endearing lilt of her accent wrapping around the word, but you nodded against her hands. âYeah. Glamorous is perfect, Ale.â
She smiled, reassured, and continued. âIt no have to be glamorous. It can just be us, in joggers, home-cooked dinner. Your University work everywhere in the room. I just want you happy, bebĂŠ.âÂ
You released a shaky breath, the last remnants of your exam anxiety evaporating into the space between you. You reached up, placing your hands over hers where they still held your face.
âI am,â You murmured, eyes locking onto hers. âI am happy whenever Iâm with you.â
Alexiaâs expression softened into a beautiful little smile. âGood.âÂ
Then, she wrapped her arms around your shoulders and pulled you into her chest, wrapping you in a tight protective hug.Â
You didnât hesitate in burying your face into the soft cotton of her hoodie and following suit in wrapping your arms around her waist. You allowed yourself to completely relax against her, breathing in the scent of her perfume that took you right back to your first date with her.Â
And as the silence stretched, the apartment finally feeling peaceful instead of suffocating, a sudden memory of the days prior to that first date flickered in your mind, and a teasing smirk began to pull at your lips.
You slowly pulled back just enough to look at her.
âYou know,â You began, your eyes sparkling with mischief. âYouâve got really good at English for those journalists, havenât you?â
Alexiaâs head dropped back as she let out a loud dramatic groan, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling. But she couldnât keep a serious face for long. As soon as you started laughing, she cracked, and a bright chuckle rattled her chest.Â
âShut up.â She grumbled, her hand dropping to your hip to give you a cheeky pinch in retaliation.Â
Afterwards, she caught your hand, fingers intertwining with your to lock them together.
âCome on,â She said, giving it a gentle tug as she began to back up, leading you out the hallway and into the lounge.
The room was still cast in darkness aside from the corner lamp and your laptop, which threw long shadows across the paperwork scattered over the coffee table. The brunette walked over to the sofa and sank back into the cushions with a content sigh.
You stood by the edge of the couch for a second, hesitating, before Alexia tapped the couch between her parted knees.Â
âSit,â She instructed softly. âYou no can study if your body is stiff like aâ a⌠how you say? Wood?âÂ
âA plank.â You supplied with an exhausted laugh as you headed over and lowered onto the floor, your back resting comfortably against the front of the sofa between her legs.
Having her behind you, even in that scenario, especially in that scenario, brought you a strange but undeniable amount of comfort and peace of mind.
She leaned forward slightly, her chin resting just above your head as she reached past to drag one of your highlighted study sheets off the table. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the dense English text.
âOkayâŚâ She mumbled, her finger tracing beneath a line of bold print. She took a slow deep breath, concentrating hard on the letters. âSo-cio-cul-tur-al⌠the-o-ry? No. This is⌠this too many letters together.â She shook her head, a huff escaping her nose. âWhat is this? Explain.â
âSociocultural theory.â You said, tilting your head back so you could look up at her. âItâs basically just the idea that children learn everything through their social interactions. Like, they learn from the culture and the people around them. And they need a mentor.â
As you spoke, Alexiaâs hands found your shoulders.Â
Her palms rested over the fabric of your shirt, her fingers immediately finding the rigid muscles at the base of your neck. When her thumbs pressed firmly into the tightest spot, an involuntary gasp slipped past your lips, your shoulders instantly dropping.
âShh,â Alexia uttered beside your ear, her hands working in slow and agonisingly perfect circles. âNo stop. Speak. I listen.â
âIt⌠it means,â You stammered slightly, your brain melting under the dual influence of her voice and the pressure of her hands. âKnowledge is initially constructed through social interaction or exposure, then internalised by the child. And part of this theory is that we all need⌠we all need a âmore knowledgeable otherâ to guide us. Like a teacher or a parent orâŚâ You leaned back into her touch as she dug a heel of her hand into your shoulder blade. â...or a girlfriend.â
A soft, rumbling chuckle vibrated against the back of your head.
âAh,â Alexia hummed, her fingers kneading their way down your upper back, chasing away the physical tension thatâd been building up for days. âLike.. you are the âmore⌠know-ledge-able⌠otherâ when we do the English? But nowâŚâ She dug her thumbs into a stubborn knot, eliciting a soft gasp from you. âI am the boss of the massage.â
âExactly,â You breathed, closing your eyes as you let your head sink back against her knee. âJust like that.â
âMuy bien. I like this theory.â She decided, the last word making you smile with how much she emphasised the âoâ. Her hands slid back up to your neck, fingers gently massaging the muscles below your ears. âSee? You know this. Your brain is smart, bebĂŠ. You just⌠think too much. You make the words in your head too loud.â
âI have to,â You sighed, a tiny bit of the old worry trying to creep back in. âThere's just so much of it, Ale.â
âNo,â She countered softly but firmly, her thumbs giving a reassuring press against your collarbone. âYou no have to do it alone. You tell me the words, I try to say them, and you explain. Is easy. We are⌠un equipo. A team. Yes?â
You opened your eyes, looking up at her upside-down face. She was looking down at you with such a tender look of encouragement that you felt a fresh wave of warmth completely consume you, pushing the very last dredges of your academic dread far out of reach.
âYes,â You whispered, a helpless smile taking over your face. âWe're a team.â
âVale,â She said under her breath, leaning down to leave a kiss on your forehead. When she sat back up, her eyes drifted back to the cluttered table, scanning the pages until she spotted another phrase she wanted to conquer. âThat one. E-go⌠cen-tre-ism?â
âEgocentrism,â You corrected gently, your voice a little thick with sleepiness. Whenever Alexia was here, and the living room was dim and at the perfect temperature, it took no time at all for your tiredness to creep in. âItâs when a child struggles to⌠comprehend and understand that other people have thoughts and perspectives and feelings different to their own. Itâs not selfishness, just that they think everyone sees, hears, and feels exactly the same way they do.â
Alexia let out another hum, her hand playing with the collar of your shirt. âLike⌠like when Jana think everyone want to eat her terrible pasta? Because⌠she like it, so she think everyone like it?â
A laugh erupted from you at the comparison, loud enough to echo in the otherwise quiet room. âActually, yes. Thatâs a good example of adult egocentrism.âÂ
âI am very smart.â Alexia preened, a smug grin emerging onto her face. âAnd youâ you are very good teacher, see? You explain, I learn, I understand, and you⌠you no die from the stress.â You smiled bashfully at her praise, cheeks heating up just a touch when she pressed another kiss to the top of your head. âYour head, it feel better?â
âMy head is much better,â You admitted, raising your hand to rest over hers on your shoulder and squeezing once. âThank you, Ale. Really.âÂ
She stared down at you for a long moment, her expression shifting into the adoring, admiring look that always made your heart swell in the best possible way. Her hand moved up to cup your jaw, her thumb lightly tracing your lower lip.
âGood,â She drawled. She held your gaze for another beat before she suddenly tapped your shoulder, the theatrically stern look returning to her eyes as she stood up. âNow. I go make dinner. You relax. Or study, if you want.â She paused for a second to shoot you a light warning glare. âBut I no happy if you stress again.â
The midfielder raised her eyebrows, waiting for your compliance.Â
You smiled shyly up at her, your heart feeling incredibly full. âI wonât stress. I promise.â
The stern facade dissolved immediately, becoming a warm and beaming grin. She leaned down, some strands of straightened hair falling from her bun around your face like a curtain as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of your forehead again.
âTe quiero, profe,â She murmured against your skin.
When she pulled away and headed toward the kitchen, her silver earrings catching the light as she redid her bun, you sat back against the sofa and watched her go.
But the peaceful silence only lasted about ten seconds before the rustle of the plastic bag was interrupted by a confused groan.
âDĂłnde estĂĄ laâŚâ Alexia started, before there was a long pause. It was filled only by the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing, and then her head popped back around the entryway with a frustrated frown. âThe⌠the thing for the⌠hob. To cook in.â
You blinked, trying to translate her frantic gestures in the air. âDo you mean a pan, Ale?â
âYes! A pan!â She groaned, throwing her hands up. âWhere is it? Your kitchen is a⌠a mystery.âÂ
You gave a laugh as you pushed yourself up from the floor. âWait there. Iâm coming to save you.â
You scooped up a fresh pad of bright yellow post-it notes and a black sharpie from the coffee table, then headed to the kitchen. Your girlfriend was still standing in the middle of the small space, looking at the closed cupboards with a dramatically forlorn, defeated expression.
âI have a solution.â You announced, taking the lid off the pen.
You walked past her and opened the cabinet below the counter, pulling out a pan for her. âFirst, the pans go in here.âÂ
You scribbled olles y sartenes/pots and pans on a yellow square, peeled it off the stack, and slapped it right onto the cabinet door.
Alexia laughed as she watched you, the sound bubbling up from her chest. âYou make labels for me?â
âIâm a teacher in training, Ale. Itâs called visual aids.â You teased, already writing the next one.
You opened the slim drawer to the right, sticking cubiertos/cutlery on the front, before moving upwards to the wall cabinets and labelling them with the same language mix on all of them.
Finally, you stepped up to the stove. You neatly wrote delante izquierdo/front left and atrĂĄs derecho/back right onto two separate notes, sticking them directly above the respective dials so she actually knew which one she was turning on.
Alexia leaned against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched you work. She was quietly chuckling, but as she looked at the tidy print on the papers, she reached out and ran a finger over the platos y boles note.
âIs⌠actually very good,â She admitted, then pointed to the newly labelled stove dials. âFront left. Back right. Okay, I no burn the flat down now.â
âPlease donât. Both my landlord and the neighbours would be very upset.â You smiled, capping the pen and pocketing it. âIâm gonna do the rest of my work in here. Iâll try and read, but Iâm mostly keeping an eye on you.â
âNo, no eye on me.â She scolded, picking up a wooden spoon from the utensilio drawer and waving it at you. âYou study, I cook.â
You grabbed your laptop and a notepad, sitting onto one of the tall stools at the high bar table which divided the kitchen from the living area. It was the perfect spotâ close enough to still feel settled by her presence and smell whatever she was starting to make, but separate enough that you could focus.
âŚor try to, at least.
Instead of looking at your screen, your eyes kept drifting over to her, now that you finally had a calm moment to actually take her in.Â
She stood in front of the counter, carefully cutting up some onions, and the sight of her made something soft squeeze in your chest.Â
The brunette had really gone all out for you tonight. Her straightened hair caught in the light every time she moved, and the hoops glinted against the warm tone of her skin. Even under the plain kitchen light, the subtle makeup sheâd done for your date made her look exceptionally striking, a contrast to the casual grey set sheâd changed into.Â
âYou look really beautiful, Ale,â You said softly, catching her off-guard. âIâm sorry about the restaurant again.â
Alexia paused, placing the knife down carefully. She turned her head to look at you over her shoulder, a small, slightly surprised smile tugging at her lips. A faint blush had made its way to her cheeks, too.
âNo more sorry.â She murmured, her eyes inexplicably soft as they held your gaze. âAnd thank you. I try look good for you.â
You gave her a smile that left her feeling a little bashful. âYou always look good for me.â
The colour to her cheek only got brighter, and she turned back to the stove with a pleased sway of her shoulders. âFocus on your work, bebĂŠ. You distract me.âÂ
You grinned, but turned back to your laptop.
For a few minutes, the flat did fall into a comfortably domestic rhythm. Only the sounds of your pen scratching the paper and the keyboard of your laptop, paired with the sizzle of oil in a pan and Alexiaâs humming could be heard.
But then the humming stopped.
You kept your eyes on your notes, but you could feel a gaze burning into the side of your face.
You slowly glanced up. Found her leaning back against the counter, now aimlessly pushing the spoon around the vegetables in the pan, not focusing on it at all. She had her free hand on her hip, watching you with a fond smile, her eyes watching you write.
You held her attention, refusing to let your cheeks blush too much, and pointed your pen at her.
âNow itâs your turn to concentrate. Stop watching me or youâll burn dinner,â You warned, keeping your voice serious despite the tug at the corner of your mouth. âAnd then I will stress again. And we both know you donât want that.âÂ
Her grin instantly turned wicked. She held her hands up in mock surrender, the spoon still dangling from her hand.
âNo stress, no stress.â She laughed, turning back to the stove with a shake of her head. âI cook, see? Quiet.âÂ
Your girlfriend â or teaching technique guinea-pig â passed the cooking test with flying colours.Â
Even if she did forget the word for garlic and instead call it the vampire vegetable.
âI just donât understand how you didnât know how to say garlic, but knew how to say vampire vegetable in English.â You were still laughing as the two of you made your way back to the couch after dinner.
âBecause⌠because is logical!â Alexia defended herself, nudging her shoulder against yours as she walked beside you. Her hand rested against the small of your back as she continued her weak defense. âVampires, they⌠hate garlic. Everyone know this. So, vampire vegetable. Is perfect English.â
âWhatever helps you sleep at night, Ale.â You chuckled, the banter between you both helping to further put you at ease.
However, that didnât stop your eyes drifting back to the open textbooks and articles on the coffee table. The familiar, anxious itch began to grate away at you again.Â
You hesitated, knowing sheâd disapprove, but still stepped toward the table. âIâm just going to go through one more chaââ
âNo.â
Before your fingers could even touch the paper, Alexiaâs hand, gentle but firm with intent, closed around your wrist. You looked at her, ready to argue, but the look on her face stopped you.
Her eyes were serious, and filled with an unexpected amount of concern.
âNo more tonight,â She told you softly, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. âYou have done enough, okay?â
âAle, I still have three moreââ
âAnd you have two days to do the work,â she interrupted, her thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist where she still held you. âYou are tired. You study for two weeks, every day, and you go to work. Your brain is⌠full. When you study like this, you learn nothing. You only will make you go crazy.â
You stayed quiet for a moment, breathing through another peak of anxiety.
âIâm just worried Iâll forget everything.â You mumbled, though the fight was leaving you much quicker then you, and Alexia, expected.
âYou no forget,â She promised, drawing you into her side as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders. âYou are smartest person I know. Tomorrow, you study. The weekend, you study. But tonight, you rest. Okay?â
You stared at her for a second.Â
You wanted to argue, tell her that every minute counted, but the heaviness to your limbs and eyelids told a different story. The exhaustion was finally catching up to you, settling deep into your bones now that she was here and the adrenaline of the panic had faded.
With a defeated sigh, you rested your forehead against her cheek. âOkay. You're right. Iâm too tired anyway.â
Alexia let out a very quiet, but definitely there, victorious hum as her arm tightened around you in a brief squeeze. âSee? Ale is always right.â
You raised an eyebrow at that, to which she grimaced at herself.Â
âIf I agree to that, you have to agree to something too.âÂ
âOkay⌠dime.â Alexia said suspiciously.
You reached a hand up, unzipped her hoodie in one swift tug, and shrugged it off her shoulders.
âYou give me your hoodie. Iâm cold.â You said, already putting it on before she got a chance to disagree.
âThat⌠unfair. But okay.â She shrugged, zipping it up for you unnecessarily but it for some reason triggered another bloom of warmth through your body. She then pulled you closer by the hood strings, looking down at you with a soft and affectionate expression. âYou look cute in my hoodie. You⌠my favourite girlfriend.â
Your brain, even as tired as it was, immediately caught the phrasing. You let out a sudden laugh, âYour favourite girlfriend?â
Alexiaâs eyebrows furrowed slightly at your amusement. âYes. What?â
âAle,â You teased, a sleepy smirk playing on your lips. âWho are the others?â
âThe⌠others?â She repeated, looking genuinely confused. She tilted her head as she tried to translate the joke in her head. âNo others. Only you.â
âBut you said âfavouriteâ girlfriend,â You explained, your voice filled with quiet giggles as you lightly tapped her chin. âItâs a describing word, yes, but when you say favourite, it implies thereâs a list. Like you have a ranking system of girlfriends, a league table, and I just happen to be at the top of it right now.âÂ
Alexiaâs eyes instantly widened as the realisation of her mistake finally landed. Her face turned red, the tips of her ears pink, and she began to frantically shake her head.
âNo, no, no!â She stammered, accent thicker than normal and rushed as she panicked. âNo list! Noâ no league table! No others! Madre mĂa, no! I mean... my... my only girl. My... favourite girl. But no other girlfriends! You are the only one! I swear, only you!â
You burst into a fit of laughter, the adorable panic on her face dissipating as you did so. âI know, Ale. Iâm just teasing you.â
She stopped to let out a long and dramatic huff as she realised youâd been winding her up. She rolled her eyes, though a reluctant grin quickly broke through her embarrassment as she gave you a gentle shove.
âYou are mean,â She grumbled. âVery mean. I try be⌠sweet in English, and you⌠you make me look stupid.â
âI think it was very sweet,â You smiled, leaning up to press a quick apologetic kiss to her jaw.
âGood.â She huffed again, though she was beaming now, the blush still faintly colouring her cheeks. âNow, TV time. Love Island time.â
âI canât believe you watch that.â You shook your head, allowing her to manoeuvre you over to the sofa as she tugged you down beside her, settling you both into the corner of the sofa.
âI like the drama,â Alexia defended with a shameless shrug, her fingers already navigating the remote. âAnd the people⌠they are so stupid. Is funny.â
You gave an amused breath, too exhausted to properly debate her terrible taste in reality television, and reached for the thick knit throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa. You tugged it over both of your laps, immediately burying your hands under the fabric as the show's loud theme music started to play.
Almost instantly, the comfort of the sofa, the warmth of the blanket, and the oversized weight of Alexia's hoodie began to work against you. You let your body go entirely slack, melting sideways until your head found its familiar spot in the crook of her shoulder.
Alexia didn't say anything at first. She just adjusted her posture, sinking a little lower into the cushions to give you a better angle, her arm wrapping securely back around your shoulders.Â
But as the first couple on screen started arguing about some trivial villa drama, she turned her head, her eyes dropping to look down at you. She looked at your face, then pointedly glanced down at the face of her watch, a silent calculation running through her head.
With the way your eyelids were already fluttering, your breathing already deep and slow against her chest, she was quietly wondering to herself if you would even make it to the first ad break. You looked completely defenseless, the anxious ball from an hour ago replaced by a sleepy, curled-up bundle.
A knowing smile tugged at the corner of Alexia's lips. She nudged her shoulder slightly, letting you snuggle even deeper into her side until you were practically tucked under her arm, your nose pressed against the collar of her t-shirt.
She stared at the TV for a quiet second, then shifted her gaze back down to the top of your head.
âI guessâŚâ she mumbled under her breath, her voice barely a whisper against the background noise of the television. â...I stay over tonight, hm?â
You didn't even open your eyes, your brain too heavy to construct a proper sentence, but you gave a slow, deliberate nod against her shoulder, your hand clutching a fistful of her shirt under the blanket.
A soft, low chuckle vibrated in Alexia's chest.Â
âSĂ,â She whispered, leaning her head down to press a lingering, warm kiss to your temple. âPensĂŠ que sĂ.â
And it was the best decision youâd ever agreed to in a sleepy daze.
Even if you woke up the following morning, in your own bed somehow, with a post-it pressed to your forehead. Mi novia inteligente y my only favourite, it read. Along with a mug of coffee on the bedside table, aptly labelled too of course.
â
hope this follow-up lived up to the first part (paper tigers but ofc can be read as a standalone). ft a bit of my uni course lolol. lemme know :)))
In the apartment, Jay's phone buzzed and lit up on the floor beside the bed, close enough that she could see the glow through the blur and far enough that it might as well have been across the city.
She was aware of it in pieces.
Light.
Sound.
The cool press of the floor against her cheek.
The ugly pulse of pain low in her stomach, no longer a point but a whole weather system, hot and bright and wrong. Her body had become unfamiliar to her. That frightened her more than she wanted to admit, even to herself. Jay knew pain. Pain was part of the job. Pain had rules. A pulled muscle had a language. A bruised hip had a mood. A stud across the ankle, a shoulder knocked half out of place, lungs burning on a late press in the eighty seventh minute, all of that made sense in a brutal, athletic way. You could measure it. Bargain with it. Play through some of it, stop for other parts of it, be stupid about it and then be lectured by people paid to be sensible.
This was different.
This felt like something inside her had torn the map.
She tried to move her hand towards the phone and the pain flashed white behind her eyes. Her fingers scraped against the floor. That was all. A pathetic little movement, not enough to reach anything, not enough to help herself, and something angry and scared rose in her throat.
"Brilliant," she breathed. "Very elegant."
Her voice sounded awful. Thin. Dry. Not hers.
She hated that too.
The wardrobe was in front of her. The door had been left slightly open, probably by Jay, definitely by Jay, because Alexia closed wardrobe doors like a person raised by civilisation and Jay treated furniture as a suggestion. Inside, Alexia's things hung in careful lines. Training tops. Button down shirts. A dark blazer she wore to club events that made Jay briefly lose access to language every time.
Beside them, Jay's side existed in a less organised ecosystem, sports bras folded because Alexia had folded them, shorts shoved into a drawer because Jay had helped, a belt hanging from a hook it did not belong on, because life was short and hooks were hooks.
She stared at Alexia's clothes and felt suddenly, stupidly emotional.
Alexia would be so angry.
Not shouting angry, though maybe there would be shouting later when Jay was definitely alive enough to deserve it. No, first would be the quiet. The terrible quiet. The face Alexia got when fear came in through the ribs and she could not let it show all the way. The face where her eyes went dark and focused and her mouth tightened like she was holding herself together by force. Jay had seen that face once after a bad tackle in a match, when a defender went through the back of her and Jay stayed down just a little too long. Alexia had crossed half the pitch with murder in her stride and love in her eyes, and later, in the dressing room, she had touched Jay's face so softly it made Jay want to confess every bad thing that had ever happened to her.
Jay did not want that face now.
She wanted the sleepy one.
The morning one.
The one that had looked at her over toast and said, no mouth, with stern affection.
Her phone stopped ringing.
The apartment returned to silence.
Jay closed her eyes.
For a second, she allowed herself the smallest, most dangerous thought.
I want Alexia.
It slipped through the pain with frightening clarity.
Not in the flirty way. Not in the dramatic kiss starved way, though she was absolutely still owed compensation for that. She wanted Alexia's hand on the back of her neck. Alexia's voice telling her, mĂrame, respira. Alexia's body close enough to make the room feel less large. Alexia's steady certainty, even if the certainty was only pretend.
Jay's eyes stung.
"No," she whispered to herself, because crying seemed like a step too far and would probably use abdominal muscles, which felt deeply unfair. "Do not be pathetic on the floor. Have some brand consistency."
The front door opened.
At first she thought she imagined it.
There was a rush of sound through the apartment, the small change in air pressure, the click of the lock, then footsteps moving fast over the floor.
"Jay?"
Julia's voice.
Sharp.
Too sharp.
Jay tried to answer. Her throat worked. Nothing useful came out.
"Jay?" Julia called again, closer now.
The footsteps changed as she moved from the living room to the hallway. Jay could hear her searching without seeing it. The little pause in the kitchen, probably seeing the tray had been taken through, then the hallway, then the bedroom doorway.
Silence.
For one second, Julia said nothing.
Jay had known Julia a long time. Long enough to know every version of her anger, every pitch of her sarcasm, every carefully structured sigh that meant someone was about to pay for wasting her time. Julia without words was unnatural. Julia without words meant the situation had slipped out of the category where language could immediately manage it.
Then Julia was on her knees beside her.
"Jay. Jay, open your eyes."
Jay opened them because she was told to, and because Julia sounded like that.
Julia's face moved in and out of focus above her. Usually Julia looked composed even when the world was on fire. Hair neat, make up clean, mouth set in a line that made agents, executives and occasionally referees rethink their life choices. Now she looked pale beneath the control. Not panicked, not quite, but close enough that Jay felt a pulse of guilt through the pain.
"Hi," Jay managed.
Julia stared at her. "Do not hi me from the floor."
"Bit rude."
"You're on the floor."
"Not my best work."
Julia's hand went to her neck, two fingers pressing against Jay's pulse. Her touch was steady, but her jaw was tight. "You're burning up."
"I'm naturally passionate."
"If you make one more sexy fever joke, I will sedate you with whatever is in Alexia's cleaning cupboard."
Jay blinked slowly. "That's not medically sound."
"I don't feel medically sound right now."
"Fair."
Julia reached behind her and grabbed the blanket from the bed, covering Jay as best she could without moving her too much. Jay realised then that she was shaking. Not dramatically. Not visibly enough to make a performance out of. Just small tremors through her arms, her shoulders, her thighs, like her body had decided it was cold despite the sweat on her skin.
Julia noticed.
Julia always noticed. It was profoundly annoying how many observant women Jay had allowed into her life. At this point, it seemed less like a support network and more like she had accidentally founded a surveillance state.
"Tell me what happened," Julia said.
Jay took a careful breath. "Stomach attempted coup."
"Jay."
"Pain got worse."
"Did you get out of bed?"
Jay hesitated.
Julia's eyes narrowed with terrifying precision. "Jay."
"Briefly."
"You were told not to move."
"I know."
"You promised Clara you would not move."
"I know."
"You promised Alexia?"
Jay shut her eyes. "Technically."
"Oh, you are so dead."
Jay opened one eye. "Already feels like it."
The anger fell off Julia's face at once.
That was worse.
"Don't say that." Julia's voice came out quieter. "Don't you dare say that."
Jay wanted to make another joke, something about brand guidelines or posthumous shirt sales or haunting Jana for biological misconduct, but Julia's expression stopped her. There was fear there now, clean and visible, and Jay did not know what to do with it.
So she reached, barely, and Julia took her hand at once.
"Did I win?" Jay whispered.
Julia leaned closer. "Win what?"
"Argument with stomach."
For half a second, Julia looked like she might cry. Then she laughed instead, a short broken sound that hurt to hear. "No. Your stomach has escalated to litigation."
"Typical."
"It's always the quiet organs."
"Appendix has always seemed shady."
"We don't know it's your appendix yet."
Jay swallowed. "Feels like a small angry worm with funding."
Julia squeezed her hand. "That is disgusting and probably anatomically incorrect."
"Still rude."
"Yes," Julia said, and the word shook a little. "Very rude."
Then the pain rose again.
Jay's body curled before she could stop it, a sound breaking out of her that scraped all the humour from the room. Julia moved with her, one hand hovering near Jay's shoulder, the other still gripping her fingers, helpless to stop it and furious at the helplessness.
The moment it passed, Julia called emergency services.
Her voice transformed.
That was what Jay heard through the haze. The change. Julia the friend vanished behind Julia the operator, the advocate, the woman who could sit in a room full of men twice her age and make them regret underestimating her by the third sentence.
"Ambulance, please. Twenty nine year old female. Severe lower right abdominal pain, fever, possible appendicitis, collapsed at home. Conscious but semi-responsive. Pain worsening, unable to stand comfortably. High pain tolerance. Professional athlete. No, she's definitely not pregnant. Yes, breathing. Fast pulse. I'm with her now."
Jay stared at the underside of the bed while Julia gave the address. There was a sock under there. One of hers. Also possibly a resistance band. Alexia was going to be furious about both. Jay considered pointing them out in case she died and someone needed to hide the evidence before Alexia found it, but the room swam again and the thought drifted away.
Julia ended the call and immediately dialled Clara.
"I'm with her," she said.
Jay could hear Clara's voice faintly, sharp with relief and fear. Julia looked down at Jay as she listened.
"She's conscious. On the floor. Severe pain. Ambulance on the way." A pause. "No, I haven't called Alexia yet." Another pause, longer this time. "Because she asked me not to until we know more."
Jay closed her eyes.
Clara's voice rose enough that Jay heard the tone if not every word.
Julia looked briefly towards the ceiling.
"I know. I know, Clara. I'm not happy about it either. But I am not calling Alexia with nothing but 'Jay is on the floor and we don't know how bad', not while she has to get across Barcelona in that state. The second we have medical confirmation, I call. Or you call Eli and get her from training. Yes. Fine. Be ready."
Julia hung up.
Jay opened her eyes a crack. "Is Clara mad?"
"Clara is planning to murder both of us."
"Bit much."
"You're on the floor and I'm negotiating delayed disclosure with a woman who has never delayed anything in her life."
"Teamwork."
"No. This is not teamwork. This is you being impossible and me enabling you under protest."
Jay tried to smile, but it trembled. "Don't scare Ale."
Julia's face softened in a way that made Jay wish she had not said anything.
"Oh, Carino," Julia said quietly. "She is going to be scared because she loves you. That is how it works."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Jay swallowed. Her throat hurt. Everything hurt. "I don't want to be the reason her face does that thing."
"What thing?"
"The quiet thing."
Julia looked at her for a long moment, the frustration in her expression giving way to something older and sadder. "You don't get to protect people from loving you."
Jay turned her face slightly towards the floor. "Sounds fake."
"It's irritatingly real."
"Can I unsubscribe?"
"No."
"Harsh."
"You have a girlfriend who would walk through traffic barefoot if you asked her to come, and you are lying on the floor worrying that she'll be upset about it."
"Not barefoot," Jay murmured. "She has standards."
Julia shook her head. "God help us all."
The paramedics arrived not long after, though to Julia it felt like hours and to Jay it felt like the world had started skipping time. One moment she was on the floor with Julia's hand in hers. The next, there were two strangers in the bedroom with calm voices and bags and the brisk kindness of people who had seen enough fear to know not to add their own to it.
They crouched beside her.
"Jay? I'm Marc. This is Laia. We're going to check you over, alright?"
Jay blinked up at him. "Marc from Barcelona?"
The paramedic smiled faintly. "Yes."
"Vives?"
Julia made a strangled sound. "She's delirious."
"I'm culturally aware."
Marc's smile widened despite the tension. "Can you tell me where the pain is?"
Jay's hand tightened over her lower right side.
"There," Julia answered when Jay's breath caught too hard.
Marc nodded. "Pain from one to ten?"
Jay's eyes narrowed with effort. "Normal people ten or footballer ten?"
Laia glanced at Julia.
Julia said, "Do not encourage her."
"Normal people ten," Marc said, professional but amused.
"Twelve."
Julia tipped her head back. "For fuck's sake."
Jay opened one eye. "You wanted honesty."
"I wanted you to call your girlfriend before you became furniture."
"Floor isn't furniture."
"It is supporting you more than your judgement."
"Good line."
"I hate that you're impressed."
They checked her temperature, blood pressure, oxygen, pulse. Jay watched their faces because she could not stop herself. Athletes learned medical expressions. They learned when the physio was being casual and when the physio was pretending to be casual. They learned the tiny glance between professionals that meant the situation had moved up a level.
Marc and Laia were good. Their faces stayed measured. But they looked at each other after the pulse. Again after her temperature. Again when Laia pressed gently near Jay's abdomen and Jay's whole body reacted before she could hide it.
Julia saw those looks too.
Her mouth tightened.
"We need to take you in," Marc said. "Likely appendicitis, possibly complicated. Hospital will assess and move quickly."
"Complicated," Jay repeated. "Rude word."
"It means they'll be ready."
"Sounds like my appendix hired representation."
Julia leaned down. "If your appendix has representation, I will destroy it."
Jay looked at her with hazy affection. "You're quite scary."
"I'm glad you've finally noticed."
Moving Jay onto the stretcher was awful.
There was no elegant way to do it. No way that did not pull at the centre of the pain. Marc and Laia were careful, gentle even, but careful did not mean painless, and Jay discovered quickly that her body no longer cared about her pride. The second they shifted her, the pain tore through her so hard she made a sound she would later pretend not to remember.
Julia did remember.
Julia would remember it for a long time.
She kept one hand on Jay's shoulder, leaning close enough that Jay could hear her through the rush in her ears.
"Breathe. That's it. I know. I know, Jay. Almost done."
"Don't tell Alexia I made that noise," Jay managed when the worst of it loosened.
Julia's face did something complicated. "I'm going to tell Alexia everything if it gets you in less trouble."
"Betrayal."
"Survival strategy."
The apartment moved around Jay in bright, disconnected pieces as they carried her out. The hallway ceiling. The framed photo Alexia had insisted on hanging properly after Jay leaned it against the wall for three months and called it "casual interior design". The little table by the door with Alexia's keys in the bowl and Jay's keys not in the bowl because Jay had left them in the pocket of a jacket somewhere. Alexia's trainers lined neatly. Jay's trainers kicked beside them at an angle that would absolutely be used in a future lecture.
Then the front door.
Then the lift.
Then the world outside, too loud and too hot even in the shaded entrance of the building.
Jay closed her eyes against it.
"Phone," she whispered suddenly.
Julia leaned closer. "I have it."
"Don't let Lucy see my search history."
Julia stared down at her. "What could possibly be in your search history that matters right now?"
"Motorcycles. Tattoo aftercare. Can you teach a parrot to swear in Catalan."
"Why?"
"Alexia said no."
"To the parrot?"
"To the swearing."
"Jay."
"Also whether appendixes can grow back."
Julia froze. "You searched that?"
"No. I'm planning ahead."
"I am begging you to be normal for one emergency."
"Can't. Medical exemption."
The ambulance smelled like disinfectant and plastic and something metallic under it. The doors closed with a final sound that made Jay's stomach drop, or maybe that was just the pain. Laia fitted a cannula. Marc checked the monitor. Julia climbed in beside them with the rigid determination of someone daring anyone to suggest she should follow separately.
Jay watched the needle slide into the back of her hand.
"Bold to stab me while I'm already under attack."
Laia secured the tape. "You're doing well."
"Lies, but I like you."
Julia rubbed her forehead. "Please stop flirting with emergency personnel."
"I'm building rapport."
"You're building a case for sedation."
"I'm charming."
"You are clammy."
"Duality."
The ambulance pulled away.
Motion made everything worse. Not dramatically at first, just enough. Each turn, each small shift in the road, moved through Jay's body with ugly precision. She gripped Julia's hand too hard and Julia let her. No complaint. No flinch. Just a squeeze back every time Jay's fingers tightened.
At some point, Jay realised she was crying.
Not sobbing. Not making noise. Just tears slipping sideways into her hairline while she stared at the ambulance ceiling and tried to breathe through the waves. She hated it. She hated it so much she would have made a joke about it if she could find one.
But the fear had slipped in properly now, cold beneath the fever. Surgery had not been said yet, not to her, not officially, but she could feel the seriousness gathering around the edges. Hear it in the way Marc spoke into the radio. See it in the way Julia kept looking at the monitor and then at Jay's face.
Julia's thumb brushed the back of her hand.
"I'm here."
Jay turned her head slightly. "She's going to be upset."
"Yes."
"I hate that."
"I know."
"I didn't call her because I thought she'd panic."
"She will panic more when she finds out you tried to protect her from information."
Jay winced. "You're meant to comfort me."
"I am comforting you. I haven't called you an idiot for nearly three minutes."
"Personal growth."
"Don't get used to it."
Jay swallowed. "Tell her I wanted to."
Julia's expression softened.
"Wanted to what?"
"Call."
"I know."
"No, tell her." Jay blinked hard, trying to clear her vision. "Tell her I nearly did."
Julia leaned closer, her eyes wet now, though her voice stayed steady by sheer force. "You can tell her yourself."
Jay looked away.
"Jay."
"I know. I just..." Her breath hitched when the ambulance turned. She waited for the pain to settle. "If she looks like that, I'll feel worse."
Julia's voice gentled. "Then she'll sit by you and feel worse too. That's love. It's inconvenient."
Jay's mouth trembled into something like a smile. "Romance is a scam."
"You've been saying that for years. Then Alexia looks at you and you turn into melted butter."
"I'm still tough."
"You're crying in an ambulance and asking me to protect your girlfriend from having feelings."
"Emotionally tough."
"Sure."
At the hospital, everything accelerated.
The ambulance bay. The sudden brightness. The roll of the stretcher over uneven ground and then smooth floor. The hit of cold hospital air against Jay's damp skin. Voices above her, around her, changing languages, switching between Catalan and Spanish and English because Julia was there and Jay was English and pain had made translation feel like trying to catch water.
Name. Date of birth. Allergies. Last ate. Last drank. Pain location. When did it start. Fever. Nausea. Collapse. Any chance of pregnancy.
Jay opened one eye at that.
"Unless Alexia has secrets, no."
Julia covered her face with one hand. "Please."
A nurse coughed into a smile and wrote something down.
They moved her into a curtained bay. Blood pressure cuff. Thermometer. Bloods. More hands, all professional, all necessary, none of them Alexia's. Jay knew that was irrational and still felt offended by it. The world had too many hands when the one she wanted was on a training pitch somewhere, probably checking her phone and frowning.
A doctor came in, introduced herself as Dr. Rovira, and pressed carefully against Jay's abdomen.
Jay tried to be brave.
Her body did not ask permission.
She hissed and jerked away, breath punching out of her.
"Sorry," Dr. Rovira said, but her face had sharpened.
Jay looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Are you fighting it?"
The doctor paused. "Fighting what?"
"My appendix."
Julia, standing by Jay's shoulder, said flatly, "She's always like this."
Dr. Rovira's mouth twitched despite herself. "I am examining it."
"Feels hostile."
"It may be appendicitis."
Jay blinked. "That's a real thing?"
Julia stared at her. "Jay."
"What?"
"You thought appendicitis was fake?"
"No, I thought it was one of those things people get in medical dramas before someone kisses in a supply cupboard."
Dr. Rovira looked down at her notes with the determined focus of someone refusing to laugh at a patient in severe pain.
Julia muttered, "I am going to walk into the sea."
"You can't," Jay murmured. "You're my emergency adult."
"That is the worst job title I've ever had."
More tests followed. Time lost shape. Jay drifted somewhere between bright awareness and feverish distance. She knew Julia stepped away once to call Clara. She knew Clara arrived at some point because suddenly there was another familiar voice outside the curtain, low and controlled and asking questions that made staff answer properly.
She knew her pain medication helped at the edges but did not make the centre go away. She knew someone said ultrasound, then CT, then surgical review. She knew she asked for Alexia once, maybe twice, and then panicked because asking made everything feel too real.
Clara appeared beside the bed.
Her face was calm.
Too calm.
Jay looked at her and tried to smile. "You look terrifying."
Clara took her hand, careful around the cannula. "Good."
"Are you mad?"
"Yes."
"Scale?"
"Continental."
Jay's eyes widened slightly. "That's a big mad."
"You ignored my call."
"I attempted to answer."
"You collapsed instead."
"Poor timing."
"You called me instead of Alexia."
Jay looked away.
Clara's anger softened, not gone but changed. "CariĂąo."
"Don't."
"I'm not scolding."
"You sound like you're about to scold compassionately."
"You are very difficult to love safely."
Jay blinked.
That one landed.
Clara seemed to realise it too, because her thumb moved gently over Jay's fingers. "Not difficult to love," she clarified, quieter. "Never that. Difficult to keep alive without a committee."
Jay exhaled a weak laugh. "That's fair."
Julia reappeared by the curtain, phone in hand, face tight. She did not have to speak. Clara looked at her and understood something had been confirmed, or close enough.
Jay saw it pass between them.
Her stomach dropped, separate from the pain.
"What?"
Julia came to the bedside.
"They think it's a ruptured appendix," she said. "They're calling surgery now. You need antibiotics and an operation."
The room seemed to recede.
For once, Jay did not make a joke immediately.
She stared at Julia, then Clara, then down at the hospital blanket covering her body like it belonged to someone else.
Surgery.
The word had a different weight when it was not about an injury. Football injuries were awful, but familiar. Ligaments. Fractures. Repairs. Scans with timelines. Rehab plans. You came back from those through work, through sweat, through physios telling you not yet and you hearing soon. This was not that. This was something inside her body rupturing quietly while she made jokes about toast.
Her eyes found Julia's.
"Call her."
Julia nodded at once. "Yes."
"No waiting."
"No waiting."
"And tell her..." Jay swallowed. The pain medication made her tongue feel heavy, and fever blurred the thought before she could catch it properly. "Tell her I'm not dead."
Clara closed her eyes for a second.
Julia leaned closer. "I'll tell her you're going into surgery and that they're taking care of you."
"Tell her I'm still mad about the kiss."
Julia's face broke.
Not fully. Not in a way Jay would have noticed if she were less drugged and less frightened. But something in her expression cracked open, just enough for all the fear to show.
"I will," Julia said, voice rough. "I promise."
Jay's eyes shifted to Clara. "You too."
Clara bent and kissed her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Bossy."
"Yes."
"Nice."
"High praise."
Julia stepped outside the curtain with the phone.
But she did not call Alexia first.
She called Eli.
Because Clara had been right earlier. Because Alexia needed to be told in person if possible. Because if Alexia received Julia's call on the pitch with only the words ruptured appendix and surgery, she might still arrive at the hospital, but she would arrive shattered and reckless and driving herself through a city that would not move fast enough.
Eli answered warmly at first, the way she always did when Julia called, with that immediate maternal affection she extended to the people who orbited Alexia's life closely enough to become family by consequence.
"Julia, carino."
Eli," Julia said, and the warmth vanished from the call. "I need you to go to training. Now. It's Jay."
There was one small breath.
Then Eli said, "Tell me."
Julia did.
Carefully. Quickly. Enough truth to move her, enough control not to break her. Jay was in hospital. Her appendix had ruptured or they strongly suspected it had. She was going into surgery. She was conscious. In pain, but conscious. She had asked for Alexia. She was being Jay about it.
Eli listened without interrupting.
Then she said, "I go."
At the training ground, the morning had sharpened into heat.
Alexia had spent the session trying to behave like herself and failing in ways that only the people who knew her best could see. To anyone else, she was still Alexia Putellas. Accurate passes. Clear instructions. Timing crisp enough to make drills look easier than they were. She corrected positioning, demanded sharper movement, called for the ball with authority. Her body performed competence because competence was built into her bones.
But Lucy saw the phone checks.
Patri saw the way Alexia's eyes kept drifting towards the side of the pitch between exercises.
Mapi saw that Alexia had not laughed once, not even when Jana tripped over a cone and tried to pretend she had meant to.
Jana, pale with residual guilt from yesterday's actual stomach bug and Jay's imagined accusations, saw Alexia look at her and immediately said, "I feel fine today, I swear."
Alexia frowned. "What?"
"Nothing."
Lucy walked over during the water break, lowering her voice. "Have you heard from Jay?"
Alexia looked at her phone again.
No messages.
No missed calls.
No ridiculous photo of the pre vomit bowl with a caption about their relationship losing its spark. No complaint about tea. No accusation against Jana. No dramatic goodbye note from bed about being denied mouth based medical care.
Nothing.
"She is sleeping," Alexia said.
Lucy looked at her.
Alexia hated that look.
"She is probably sleeping," she corrected.
"Ale."
"She had fever."
"You said that."
"And lower pain."
Lucy's face changed. "Lower?"
"Right side."
Lucy went still.
Alexia saw it and felt something cold move through her chest.
"What?"
"Nothing," Lucy said too quickly.
Alexia's eyes sharpened. "Do not nothing me. I live with Jay. I know nothing means disaster."
Lucy rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. "It can be appendicitis, that sort of pain. Not always. Could be a bug. But lower right..."
Alexia's grip tightened around her bottle.
For a second, she was back in the bedroom. Jay warm under her hand. Jay smiling too quickly. Jay saying lower right and then making jokes fast enough to cover the fact that Alexia had gone quiet.
"I should have stayed," Alexia said.
Lucy's expression softened. "You didn't know."
"I knew enough to worry."
"You told her to call?"
"Yes."
"Then she'll call."
Alexia looked down at her phone.
They both knew Jay might not.
The whistle blew for the next drill. Alexia moved because movement was easier than standing still with fear. Pass. Turn. Scan. Receive. The ball came to her feet and she controlled it automatically, but her mind was no longer fully on the pitch. It was in their apartment. In their bedroom. With the tray. The toast. The bowl. Jay under the duvet, making that face she made when she was trying to convince Alexia she was fine and herself at the same time.
Then Jonatan stopped talking.
It was subtle, but Alexia felt it.
A silence moved over the pitch before anyone said her name.
Alexia turned.
Her mother stood at the edge of the training ground.
Eli was not dramatic. She did not wave her arms or call out across the grass. She simply stood there beside a member of staff, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, handbag held tightly in both hands, face composed in a way that made Alexia's blood go cold.
No.
Her body knew before her mind did.
No.
Lucy said, "Ale?"
Alexia was already moving.
She pulled off her bib as she crossed the pitch, not because it mattered, but because her hands needed something to do or they would shake. The grass seemed too long. The distance too stupid. Every step stretched. Her boots felt heavy, her chest tight, the world narrowing until there was only Eli's face and the awful gentleness in Jonatan's eyes as he stepped back to give them space.
"Mama?" Alexia's voice did not sound like hers.
Eli took her hands.
That was when Alexia knew it was bad.
Eli did not soften bad news with touch unless touch was needed before the words arrived.
"CariĂąo."
Alexia shook her head once. "No."
Eli's eyes filled, but her voice stayed steady. "It is Jay."
"What happened?"
"She is in hospital."
For a moment, Alexia simply stared.
The sentence did not connect to reality.
Jay was at home.
Jay was in bed.
Jay was in their bed, with toast on the tray and water beside her and a bowl she had been offended by. Jay was supposed to be sleeping, supposed to wake up and send Alexia some complaint about being abandoned to die with only carbohydrates for comfort. Jay was not hospital. Hospital belonged to other people, to injuries on pitches, to controlled situations where medics arrived and everyone knew what had happened.
"No," Alexia said. "No, she had a bug."
Eli's fingers tightened around hers. "Her appendix ruptured. They are taking her to surgery."
The words struck with no mercy.
Appendix.
Ruptured.
Surgery.
Alexia felt the blood drain from her face so quickly the pitch seemed to tilt.
"QuĂŠ?"
"Julia is with her. Clara too. She was conscious. They are moving quickly."
"I left her."
"Alexia."
"I left her." The second time it came out broken. Not loud. Worse than loud. Small. As if something had collapsed behind her ribs. "She told me pain and I left her."
"You could not know."
"I did know." Alexia pressed a hand to her mouth. Her fingers were shaking now, visibly, and she hated that but could not stop it. "I saw her face. She was warm. She said lower right and I thought..." Her breath caught. "I thought Jana. I thought bug. I made toast."
"Ay, mi niĂąa."
"I did not kiss her."
Eli blinked, thrown for half a second by the suddenness of that detail, by the devastation Alexia put into it.
Then understanding softened her whole face.
Alexia's eyes filled so fast she could not see properly. "She asked me. Again and again, she asked, and I said no because I thought she could make me sick. I kissed her forehead. I kissed her hand. Not her mouth." Her voice cracked. "Mama, what if she was scared and I was not there?"
Eli stepped closer and gripped Alexia's face between both hands, forcing her to look up the way she had when Alexia was a child and grief had been too large for her little body.
"Listen to me. You loved her this morning. You cared for her. You told her what to do. You made her eat. You did not abandon her."
"I left."
"You went to work because both of you thought it was illness, not danger."
"She asked me to stay."
"Did she?"
Alexia's mouth trembled. "No. She told me to go."
"Because she loves you too."
That made it worse. Somehow, impossibly, that made it worse.
Behind them, the squad had gathered without gathering, close enough to hear only fragments, far enough to pretend privacy still existed. Lucy stood very still, all colour gone from her face. Patri's hand covered her mouth. Mapi had one arm around Jana, who looked stricken beyond words. Keira hovered near Lucy, watching Alexia with the helplessness of someone who wanted to fix something that could not be fixed by any useful English practicality.
Alexia looked at none of them.
If she looked at kindness, she would break.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
Julia.
Alexia answered so fast she nearly dropped it.
"Julia."
"She's going into surgery now," Julia said. Her voice was controlled, but Alexia could hear the strain beneath it. "They believe her appendix ruptured. They've started antibiotics. She's in pain, but she was conscious. She asked for you."
Alexia closed her eyes.
For one second, the world became only that.
She asked for you.
"What did she say?"
Julia's breath shook, just once. "She told me to tell you she is still mad about the kiss."
The laugh that left Alexia was almost a sob.
It broke out of her with no permission, wet and wounded and full of such violent relief that Eli immediately pulled her closer.
"That idiot," Alexia whispered.
"Yes," Julia said, and now her voice sounded near tears too. "Our idiot."
"I am coming."
"I know."
"Tell her."
"She is going under now, Ale."
"Tell her anyway."
A pause.
Then Julia, softer than Alexia had ever heard her, said, "I will."
Alexia nodded as if Julia could see her. "Tell her I am coming. Tell her I love her. Tell her I will kiss her when she wakes up."
Julia made a small sound, half laugh, half grief. "I'll tell her."
"And Julia?"
"Yes?"
"Do not leave her."
"I won't."
The call ended.
For a second, Alexia stood there with the phone still against her ear.
Then her body remembered how to move.
She turned towards Jonatan. He did not make her ask.
"Go," he said quietly.
Alexia nodded once, but her legs felt wrong beneath her. Lucy stepped forward, catching her elbow for half a second, just enough to steady her.
"She'll be alright," Lucy said, though her voice had the rough edge of fear. "She's annoying as hell. No organ gets the final word over Jay."
Alexia tried to smile.
It hurt too much.
Jana stepped forward, eyes wide and wet. "Alexia, I'm so sorry. I didn't know, I mean, if it was because I was sick yesterday..."
Alexia looked at her then, and despite everything, despite the terror ripping through her chest, some part of her understood what Jana was carrying and could not let it grow.
"No," she said firmly. Her accent thickened around the word. "No, Jana. This is not you. Vale? Do not do this."
Jana nodded quickly, wiping at her face.
Mapi said, voice forced into something steadier than she felt, "We come later?"
Alexia could not answer.
Eli did for her. "Later. I will message."
Patri stepped closer and pressed Alexia's training jacket into her hands. Alexia had not realised she had left it by the bench.
"She'll want to know you looked dramatic," Patri said softly, trying to give her something that sounded like Jay, something stupid enough to hold. "Like full captain panic. Very attractive. She'd be unbearable about it."
Alexia's mouth trembled.
"She will be unbearable," Alexia said.
"Exactly."
"She will wake up and complain I did not kiss her."
"Obviously."
"She will say surgery was too much effort for a kiss."
Lucy nodded. "That sounds accurate."
Alexia inhaled, but it broke halfway.
Eli wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"Come," she said. "I drive."
Alexia let herself be led because if she tried to do one more thing with control, she might fall apart in front of everyone. She changed only enough to be allowed into a hospital without grass on her knees, hands shaking as she pulled on trainers, unable to remember whether she had her phone, her keys, anything.
Eli took over. Bag. Jacket. Water. Phone charger from someone's hand. Lucy pressed something into the bag too, probably useless, probably necessary. Keira said they would handle the club. Jonatan spoke to staff. The world arranged itself around Alexia's fear because she could not arrange it herself.
Not the vague, inconvenient sort of stomach pain a person could bargain with after a glass of water, a deep breath, and a private promise to make better choices around food despite knowing full well they were going to eat exactly the same way again the moment life became emotionally inconvenient. This was not bloating. This was not nerves. This was not the kind of faint internal disagreement that came after a restaurant served something suspiciously creamy and everyone pretended not to notice because the waiter had been nice.
This pain had intent.
It sat low on the right side of her abdomen, precise and ugly, as if something inside her had woken before the rest of her body, put on boots, and decided to start trouble. It did not spread in a dramatic wave. It did not move around enough for Jay to dismiss it as general stomach nonsense. It was fixed. Focused. A small, mean little point of pain with the confidence of someone who had walked into her body and immediately asked to speak to management.
Jay lay perfectly still beneath the duvet and stared at the thin grey wash of morning light pressing around the curtains.
The bedroom was quiet in that particular early way Barcelona could be quiet before the day got hot and loud and alive. The air conditioning hummed low in the corner. The ceiling fan turned lazily above them, pushing cool air in slow circles. Somewhere outside, a scooter went past and faded, then a shutter rattled open on a neighbouring balcony. Their room smelled faintly of clean sheets, Alexia's body wash, and the coffee beans Jay had bought because the packaging looked expensive and she had been trying, with great seriousness, to become the sort of woman who had opinions about coffee beyond "yes" and "more".
Beside her, Alexia slept on her stomach with one arm bent under the pillow and the other lying across Jay's waist like an act of possession committed unconsciously. Her hair was loose and messy across one cheek, dark against the white pillowcase. Her mouth was soft. Her lashes rested against her skin. In sleep, all the captain left her face. The public woman vanished. The structure, the authority, the press conference composure, the calm that could silence a room without needing to rise above conversational volume. Gone. In bed like this, Alexia looked younger, warmer, almost breakable, except Jay knew better than to mistake softness for fragility. Alexia was never fragile. She was just unguarded here. With Jay. In their bed. In the home they had built slowly over the past year, one shared habit and one stolen hoodie and one unnecessary kitchen appliance at a time.
Jay loved that.
She loved Alexia's arm over her waist. Loved the weight of it. Loved that Alexia reached for her even in sleep, like her body had learned Jay as a place and kept returning. Loved the faint line between Alexia's brows that appeared when she was dreaming too hard. Loved the ridiculous fact that Alexia, one of the most controlled women on earth, could somehow steal the duvet every night with the quiet, ruthless consistency of a professional criminal and then wake up looking surprised when Jay accused her of theft.
She was beautiful.
Deeply, offensively beautiful.
Which was rude, really, because if Jay was going to be betrayed by an organ at half six in the morning, the least Alexia could do was look slightly less kissable while it happened. There should have been solidarity. A bit of morning ugliness. Some pillow creases. Maybe a weird sleep face. Instead Alexia looked like a woman in a perfume advert about longing and discipline, and Jay looked like a heavily tattooed athlete lying very still because her stomach had apparently developed political opinions.
The pain pinched tighter.
Jay's fingers curled against the sheet.
She breathed in carefully through her nose and out through her mouth. Slow. Controlled. Sensible. Exactly the way physios and doctors always told athletes to breathe when something hurt, as if breath could solve everything and not merely make you more aware that you were still alive to experience the problem.
For several seconds, Jay did what she had done for most of her professional career whenever pain arrived uninvited.
She pretended it had not.
This was not denial, she decided. Denial was dramatic. This was assessment. Elite assessment. A performance professional taking inventory of her own body like an expensive vehicle with a questionable warning light.
Toes: fine. Feet: fine. Calves: fine, though one was slightly tight from training, which was rude but familiar. Knees: shockingly cooperative for once. Thighs: powerful, beautiful, no notes. Hips: fine. Back: fine. Shoulders: fine. Head: clear. Mouth: dry, but not suspiciously dry. Stomach: actively trying to assassinate her.
Otherwise, strong morning.
The pain turned again, slow and sharp, not quite a cramp, not quite a stab, something between the two. Enough to make her face tighten before she could stop it.
Jay stared at the ceiling.
"Absolutely not," she whispered.
Alexia stirred immediately.
Of course she did.
Jay had once knocked an entire glass of water off the bedside table at three in the morning, watched it hit the floor with enough noise to wake the ancestors, then frozen in panic while Alexia slept through the whole thing like a saint in a museum. Jay had dropped a shoe. Sworn at a wardrobe. Walked directly into the bathroom door because she had been half asleep and, in her own defence, the door had "come out of nowhere". Alexia had not moved for any of those. She slept deeply, warmly, greedily, with the smug peace of someone whose conscience was organised.
But Jay whispering one sentence in the wrong tone?
One tiny, muttered complaint to her own abdomen?
Alexia's eyes opened.
Not slowly either. Not in that confused, drifting way people woke when they were being pulled gently from sleep. Her eyes opened with purpose. Hazel, heavy lidded, instantly alert beneath the mess of her hair. Captain mode did not even load gradually. It simply appeared, like a system update nobody had authorised.
"QuĂŠ pasa?" Alexia mumbled, voice rough with sleep, accent thicker because morning had not yet given her time to polish the edges of her English.
Jay froze.
This was the first tactical error of the day.
"Nothing."
Alexia blinked once.
Then she lifted her head from the pillow.
Jay knew immediately she had made it worse. Nothing was an answer that had never once worked in her life. Not with Julia, not with Clara, not with Lucy, and definitely not with Alexia, who treated the word nothing as both a lie and a personal insult. Nothing, when said by Jay, had a long and distinguished history of meaning many things. Blood on a sock. A bruise the size of a fruit bowl. An emotional breakdown disguised as needing petrol. A kitchen incident involving a pan, a tea towel, and what Jay still maintained was "controlled flame". Once, nothing had meant Jay had accidentally locked herself out on the terrace wearing only boxers and one sock because she had gone outside to "look at the moon like a tortured poet" and the sliding door had decided to commit betrayal.
Alexia pushed herself up on one elbow. The arm across Jay's waist shifted, but did not leave her entirely. Her hand stayed there, warm and possessive through the duvet.
"BebĂŠ."
Jay turned her head very slowly, as if speed might make her more guilty. "Morning."
Alexia stared at her. "Why did you say absolutely not?"
Jay considered several possible answers.
Because my body is committing treason felt too alarming.
Because I am negotiating with an internal threat sounded too much like something that would make Alexia call a doctor before breakfast.
Jay chose dignity.
"I was speaking to myself."
Alexia's eyes narrowed. "You said it like you were speaking to an enemy."
"I contain multitudes."
"Jay."
"I was speaking to my body."
"That is worse."
"It started it."
Alexia's gaze moved over her face with quiet precision. This was the problem with loving someone observant. You could not get away with poor acting. Jay was a brilliant footballer, a charismatic nuisance, a deeply committed flirt, and a woman who could charm a steward into letting her through the wrong door without credentials, but she had never successfully lied to Alexia Putellas from less than six feet away. Alexia read her like a scouting report. Too much tension in the jaw. Too little colour around the mouth. Eyes too bright. One shoulder held too carefully still.
Then Alexia looked down.
"Why are you holding your stomach?"
Jay looked down too.
Her right hand was pressed firmly against the duvet over the lower part of her abdomen.
Traitor.
Honestly, she could not rely on anyone.
"Because," Jay said, with as much confidence as a woman could have while being betrayed by her own limbs, "I'm affectionate."
Alexia stared. "With your stomach?"
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"We've had a difficult relationship. I'm doing the work."
"The work?"
"Rebuilding trust."
Alexia's expression did not change.
Jay sighed. "You're not enjoying my growth."
"You are holding your stomach and your face is weird."
"My face is never weird."
"It is weird now."
"That is harsh from a woman who claims to love me."
"I do love you." Alexia sat up fully, hair falling around her shoulders, the duvet sliding down to her waist. "That is why I am looking at your weird face."
Jay tried to smile.
It lasted half a second.
Smiling, she discovered, used more abdominal muscles than seemed fair or anatomically necessary. A tiny pull went through her lower right side and turned the smile into something tighter. She corrected it quickly, but Alexia saw.
Of course Alexia saw.
The last of the softness left her expression. Not the love, never that, but the sleepy gentleness. Her whole body became alert. She leaned over Jay and pressed the back of her hand to Jay's forehead.
Jay made a token attempt to dodge.
The movement immediately made the pain grip harder.
She stopped dodging.
Alexia gave her a look that said she had noticed both the attempt and the surrender.
"Do not move away from me," Alexia said.
"It was symbolic resistance."
"It was stupid resistance."
"Still resistance."
Alexia pressed her hand to Jay's forehead, then her cheek, then slid her fingers to the side of Jay's neck to feel the heat there. Her touch was gentle, but her face had gone serious in a way that made Jay's chest tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with pain. Alexia worried quietly. That was the worst kind. If she shouted, Jay could joke. If she fussed, Jay could perform outrage. But when Alexia went still and careful, when her love narrowed into focus, Jay always felt the joke catch somewhere behind her teeth.
"You are warm bebe," Alexia said.
"I'm always warm."
"You are too warm."
"I'm naturally passionate."
"You are sweating amor."
Jay opened one eye wider. "Also passion."
"Jay."
"What?"
Alexia's thumb stayed against her throat. "Do not charm me right now."
Jay blinked. "That's like asking the sun not to rise."
"It is seven in the morning."
"The sun is literally rising."
"Dios mĂo."
Jay smiled despite herself, then regretted it immediately when the pain pinched again. She breathed carefully through her nose.
Alexia saw that too.
"Tell me," she said, voice lower now. "What hurts?"
Jay looked at her.
There were moments in their relationship where Jay could still feel the old instinct flare up before the newer, better truth could settle over it. The instinct to minimise. To make pain funny before anyone could take it seriously. To make herself easy to handle. To keep other people calm by becoming entertaining. It had lived in her so long that sometimes it moved before thought did.
But Alexia's hand was on her neck, thumb steady at her pulse, and her eyes were steady too. Not frightened yet. Not angry. Just there. Waiting. Asking Jay to give her the truth because she had earned it, because love was not only kissing in kitchens and stealing hoodies and pressing each other against walls after training. Love was also this. Being honest when the body failed to behave.
"My stomach hurts," Jay admitted.
Alexia's brows lifted.
Jay added quickly, "A bit."
"A bit?"
"A dramatic bit."
"What means a dramatic bit?"
"It means I am brave, but I may complain."
"You always complain."
"That is how you know I'm alive."
"Where?"
Jay gestured vaguely under the duvet. "Around."
"Jay."
"Stomach region."
"Jay."
"Lower right."
The change in Alexia's face was small, but immediate. Jay saw it. The tiny pause. The new calculation. Alexia was not a doctor, but she was a footballer who had been around enough bodies, injuries, physios, emergency checks and medical staff to know that pain had geography and some geography mattered more than others.
Jay disliked that pause.
She disliked it very much.
It gave the pain legitimacy.
Then Alexia's expression shifted again as another thought arrived.
"Jana was sick yesterday."
Jay blinked.
Relief and accusation hit at the same time.
"That tiny biological weapon."
Alexia frowned. "Do not call Jana this."
"She looked green, Ale. She looked like a Victorian child in a plague painting."
"She had stomach bug."
"She breathed near me."
"She was sitting at the other table."
"Germs have legs."
"Dios mio... they do not."
"They have ambition then."
Alexia rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth moved, and that small almost smile loosened something in Jay's chest. There she was. Her Alexia. Worried but amused. Firm but soft at the edges because Jay was ridiculous and Alexia loved her enough to be annoyed by it every day and still come back for more.
"You probably catch it," Alexia said.
Jay gasped. "I did not catch it. My immune system is elite."
"Your immune system lost to hotel prawns in Lyon."
"Those prawns were criminals."
"You threw up for eight hours."
"I was cleansing."
"You cried because I would not let you order chips."
"I was emotional and empty."
"You told the bathroom floor it was your only friend."
Jay looked away. "Private moment."
Alexia's mouth twitched again, but her eyes remained on Jay's face. She was cataloguing. Temperature. Colour. Pain response. How much Jay was joking. How much the joking was cover. Jay knew the process because she had watched Alexia do it on the pitch a hundred times: one glance, three decisions, no wasted movement.
Alexia pulled the duvet up over Jay's chest with one hand. "You stay in bed."
Jay immediately narrowed her eyes. "I don't like how quick you said that."
"You are sick."
"I'm inconvenienced."
"You are sick."
"I have a stomach disagreement."
"You have fever and stomach pain."
"You're making it sound unattractive."
"It is unattractive."
Jay stared at her, wounded. "Wow."
Alexia leaned down and kissed her forehead before Jay could protest properly.
The kiss was soft and warm and brief.
Far too brief.
Jay's eyes opened. "That was not enough."
"It was forehead."
"I noticed."
"You are sick."
"I'm aware. I was there when it happened."
Alexia pushed herself out of bed. She moved with purpose now, pulling on the first T shirt she found from the chair in the corner. It was Jay's, faded black, too loose at the shoulder, and Jay would have appreciated that more if her abdomen was not acting like a villain in a very small room. Alexia tugged on shorts, tied her hair into a loose bun, then turned to find Jay attempting to shift upward.
"No."
Jay froze halfway.
Alexia had not raised her voice. She did not need to. That was the terrible thing. Alexia could say no in a way that made gravity itself reconsider.
Jay blinked. "What?"
"Back down."
"I'm sitting up."
"No."
"I'm an adult."
"You are an adult who lies."
"I embellish."
"You will sit up, then stand, then tell me you are fine, then fall over near the kitchen."
"That happened one time."
"Three times."
"The third time was not a fall. It was a dramatic lean."
"You slid down the fridge."
"It was supporting me emotionally."
Alexia pointed to the pillow. "Down."
Jay lowered herself back with enormous theatrical offence, moving carefully despite the performance. "This relationship has become authoritarian."
"This relationship has become sensible."
"I don't respond well to sensible."
"I know, amor. This is why I must use force."
Jay's eyes flicked over her, because even in pain she remained committed to the bit and also to being deeply, helplessly in love. Alexia stood near the foot of the bed in Jay's T shirt, bare legs, messy bun, sleep-warm face, looking stern and domestic and terrifyingly beautiful.
"You're very bossy for someone wearing my shirt," Jay said.
Alexia glanced down at herself. "It is mine now."
"That is theft."
"You steal my hoodies."
"That's romance."
"This also romance."
"No, this is textile crime."
Alexia came around to Jay's side of the bed and tucked the duvet around her again with infuriating tenderness. She did it properly, smoothing it under Jay's arm, adjusting the pillow behind her shoulder, checking the water bottle on the bedside table. The care was so practical, so automatic, that Jay's throat tightened. There were still moments when being loved like this surprised her. Not the big declarations. Not the kissing in front of the team until Lucy threatened to file a formal complaint with UEFA. Not Alexia grabbing her hand in public without thinking. Those things were easy to recognise.
It was the duvet.
The water.
The quiet hand against her forehead.
The certainty that Alexia would notice discomfort before Jay had fully admitted it to herself.
Jay softened before she could help it.
Alexia noticed that too, because apparently her hobbies included football, leadership, and emotionally exposing Jay before breakfast.
"You stay," Alexia said, gentler now.
Jay narrowed her eyes. "You say that like I'm a dog."
"You behave worse than dog."
"I'm deeply trainable."
"No, you are not."
"I am with the right reward system."
Alexia paused.
It was tiny. Barely a hesitation. But Jay caught it, because flirting with Alexia was one of her elite skills and she took professional pride in recognising when the ball had slipped through the defensive line.
Jay's grin appeared slowly.
Alexia's eyes narrowed. "No."
"You paused."
"I did not."
"You absolutely paused."
"I was thinking how annoying you are."
"You were thinking about rewards."
"I was thinking about toast."
"Kinky."
"Jay."
"What? You brought up toast with that tone."
Alexia pointed at her. "Sick. Bed. No flirting."
Jay settled back against the pillow, smug despite the pain. "You love my flirting."
"I tolerate it."
"You encouraged it last night."
Alexia's cheeks coloured faintly.
Jay's grin sharpened. "Oh, look at that. There she is."
Alexia turned away too quickly. "I make you breakfast."
"Ooh."
"Toast."
Jay's face dropped. "Oh."
"And tea."
"Wow. A sickly orphan breakfast. Shall I ask for a candle and cough nobly into a handkerchief?"
"You are lucky I feed you."
"I am lucky generally." Jay's gaze softened as Alexia paused in the doorway. "Look at you."
Alexia looked back at her.
For a second the room went quieter.
Jay had meant it as flirtation, because she meant almost everything with Alexia as flirtation if she could get away with it, but there was too much truth in it to stay light. Look at you. In my shirt. In our room. Loving me. Staying. Choosing. Making toast because my stomach hurts and you care too much to pretend it does not.
Alexia's expression softened.
"You are very sweet when you are sick," she said.
Jay blinked. "I'm sweet all the time."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"You are chaos all the time. Sometimes sweet."
"I'm a delicate flower."
"You are a fire alarm with tattoos."
Jay pointed weakly after her as she left. "That was poetry and slander."
Alexia disappeared into the hallway, muttering something in Spanish that was too quick for Jay to catch fully, though she definitely heard "madre mĂa" and "imposible" and possibly "guapa", which she chose to take as a victory.
The moment Alexia left, Jay let her face relax.
The pain was still there.
Without Alexia in the room to joke at, it felt worse.
That annoyed Jay too. Pain should not get more confident because her audience had left. It was unprofessional.
She shifted carefully, trying to find a position that made it less sharp. On her back was uncomfortable. On her left side pulled strangely. On her right side was worse. She ended up half-curled, one knee bent, hand pressed over the lower right part of her abdomen through the duvet. The pressure helped a little. Or maybe it simply gave her the illusion of control, which was nearly as useful.
From the kitchen came the sounds of Alexia caring.
Jay knew them all now.
The soft thud of a cupboard door closing with Alexia's hip because she always used her hands for three other things at once. The scrape of a plate from the shelf. The click of the kettle. The little pause before the toaster lever went down because Alexia always checked the setting after Jay once turned it up to maximum "to see what commitment looked like" and nearly created charcoal. The drawer. The knife. The quiet rhythm of a woman who found reassurance in order, who handled fear by making the immediate world manageable.
Jay loved that about her.
She loved it so much it sometimes knocked the breath out of her in the most ordinary moments. Alexia arranging fruit in the bowl because she liked the colours balanced. Alexia lining their shoes by the door even though Jay would ruin the system within twelve hours. Alexia checking Jay's training bag and pretending she was only doing it because Jay was hopeless, not because she liked making sure Jay had everything. Alexia touching Jay's lower back in crowded spaces, guiding without controlling. Alexia kissing the side of her head mid conversation with someone else because her body wanted Jay close before her mind had decided to make it public.
Their affection had become a language the whole team pretended to hate.
Lucy complained the most, which was hypocritical because Lucy watched them with soft eyes when she thought nobody noticed. Mapi made gagging noises and then asked if they wanted coffee. Patri had once walked into the gym, seen Alexia sitting on a bench with Jay between her knees while she taped Jay's wrist, and simply turned around muttering, "No, no, I am too single for this." Keira had started saying "personal space" every time Jay kissed Alexia in the corridor, and Jay had started kissing Alexia twice out of principle.
They did not care.
That was the thing.
A year in, and Jay still touched Alexia like she was grateful to find her there. Alexia still looked for Jay when she entered a room. They were not subtle. They had tried subtlety for about nine days at the start and both of them had found it boring, stressful and ultimately incompatible with Jay's face.
The pain twisted again.
Jay inhaled sharply and pressed her palm harder into her stomach.
"Don't ruin this," she whispered down at it. "She's making toast. There's romance in the air and you are being incredibly attention seeking."
Her stomach did not care.
Rude.
Alexia returned ten minutes later carrying a tray with the seriousness of a woman bringing supplies to a battlefield. Toast cut into triangles sat on a small plate beside a mug of tea, a glass of water, a banana, two plain crackers, and a bowl.
Jay stared at the bowl immediately.
"What's that?"
Alexia set the tray carefully on the bedside table. "If you vomit."
Jay blinked. "You brought me a pre vomit bowl?"
"Yes."
"As a concept, that is devastating."
"It is practical."
"It's the least sexy thing you've ever done."
"You are sick."
"I'm still hot."
"You are pale."
"Hot people can be pale. Vampires carried entire franchises on it."
Alexia sat on the edge of the bed and gave her a look. "You are not vampire."
"You don't know everything about me."
"I know you cried when a fly touched your face."
"It was aggressive."
"It was fly."
"It had confidence."
Alexia broke off a corner of toast and held it up. "Eat."
Jay looked at the toast.
Then at Alexia.
Then at the toast again.
"Are you hand feeding me?"
"You will enjoy this too much."
"I feel seen."
"You are dramatic enough to need it."
"I am accepting care with grace."
"You are making face like princess."
"I'm your princess."
Alexia snorted softly. "You are my problem."
Jay opened her mouth obediently.
Alexia fed her the toast.
It was plain, barely buttered, cut into a triangle with the sort of care Alexia put into everything. Jay chewed slowly. Her stomach did not immediately revolt, which she decided was generous of it. The toast was boring, but Alexia's fingers had brushed her lower lip while feeding her, so the meal had range.
"This is nice," Jay said.
"The toast?"
"Being adored."
Alexia sighed, but her eyes softened. "You are ridiculous."
"You love me."
"SĂ."
"Say it with less judgement."
"No."
Jay ate another bite because Alexia held it out and because refusing food from Alexia while Alexia looked at her with those worried hazel eyes felt legally questionable. Alexia gave her water after that, then tea, then watched every swallow like she might need to write a report on it.
Jay raised an eyebrow. "You're staring at me."
"I am monitoring."
"Sexy."
"You are sick."
"I can multitask."
"You can barely sit."
"Also true."
Alexia's hand settled on Jay's thigh over the duvet, warm and grounding. Her thumb began to move in slow strokes, back and forth, back and forth, an unconscious rhythm that made Jay's whole body want to soften despite the pain. Alexia had always been physical with love, but not in a careless way. She touched with purpose. A palm on Jay's hip to steady her. Fingers at the back of her neck to bring her attention home. A hand over her heart when Jay was spiralling too fast. A kiss at the corner of her mouth when words would make everything too large.
Now, sitting beside her in the grey morning, Alexia looked like she wanted to hold Jay still by force of will alone.
Jay watched her for a while.
"You're worried."
Alexia looked up. "You have fever and stomach pain."
"It's probably Jana's haunted stomach bug."
"Probably."
"You say probably with a face."
"What face?"
"The face where you're already mentally preparing a hospital bag."
Alexia did not deny it fast enough.
Jay groaned. "Ale."
"What?"
"It's a bug."
"You do not know."
"Jana breathed near me with plague energy."
"Stop saying plague."
"She looked like she was about to announce she'd seen the light."
"Jay."
"She had one sip of water and everyone acted like she was brave."
"She was sick."
"I'm sick and I'm being denied kisses."
Alexia's expression sharpened immediately. "Yes. Because you may be contagious."
Jay went still.
There were betrayals, and then there was this.
"Sorry," she said slowly. "What did you just say?"
Alexia's mouth twitched. "No kisses."
Jay placed her toast down with the gravity of a woman setting aside legal evidence. "You're withholding affection?"
"I am sitting here feeding you toast."
"Toast is not affection."
"It is care."
"It is bread."
"It is bread with care."
"Still bread."
"You have stomach bug."
"I have a girlfriend."
"I do not want stomach bug."
Jay stared at her as if Alexia had personally wounded the institution of romance. "You're choosing health over me?"
"I am choosing both."
"No, you're choosing fear."
"I am choosing not to vomit."
"You used to be romantic."
"I am very romantic."
"You brought me a vomit bowl and refused to kiss me."
"I cut your toast into triangles."
"That's not romance, that's geometry."
Alexia laughed despite herself, and Jay, even pale and uncomfortable and privately beginning to suspect that her stomach was being a little too enthusiastic for a simple bug, felt a flash of triumph. There it was. The laugh. The one Alexia tried to hold back when she wanted to stay stern. Jay loved dragging it out of her. Loved seeing discipline lose to joy for half a second.
Alexia leaned closer and brushed Jay's hair back from her forehead. "You are impossible, bebĂŠ."
Jay tilted her chin up hopefully. "Kiss?"
"No."
"Forehead?"
"You already had forehead."
"Mouth?"
"No."
"Cheek?"
"No."
"Neck?"
"Jay."
"I'm just exploring options."
"You are sick."
"I'm emotionally abandoned."
"You are under a duvet I tucked around you after feeding you breakfast."
"Cold. Loveless. Bread based relationship."
Alexia shook her head, but she was smiling now, and that helped. It helped enough that Jay almost forgot the pain until it tightened again, sudden and mean.
Her breath caught.
Alexia's smile vanished.
"Worse?"
Jay recovered quickly. "No."
"Jay."
"A little."
"How little?"
"Normal little."
"You are sweating more."
"Because you're withholding kisses. My body is grieving."
Alexia did not laugh that time. She reached for the water and held it out. "Drink."
Jay drank.
The water felt too cold going down. Her stomach rolled, not enough to vomit, but enough for the bowl to become a less ridiculous object in the room. She hated that. She did not want the bowl to win.
Alexia watched her for another minute, then looked towards the wardrobe, then back at Jay.
"I can stay from training."
Jay's answer came too quickly. "No."
Alexia's face closed slightly.
Jay saw it and softened at once. "Baby."
"You are sick."
"It's a bug."
"You do not know."
"I know you have training."
"Training is not important if you are ill."
Jay's chest hurt then, in a completely different way. That was the danger of Alexia. She said things like that plainly. No drama. No performance. Just a simple reordering of the world in which Jay came first, and Jay still had not fully learned how to receive that without wanting to make a joke and cry at the same time.
"I'll sleep," Jay said, quieter. "Honestly. I'll be disgusting and heroic. I'll hydrate. I'll stare dramatically out the window. Maybe write Jana a strongly worded message."
"You will not message Jana."
"I might send a formal complaint."
"No."
"She started this."
"She had a virus."
"Allegedly."
Alexia leaned in closer. "MĂrame."
Jay looked at her.
The softness was gone from Alexia's voice now. Not the love. The playfulness. This was the voice she used when she needed Jay to listen properly. On the pitch, Jay responded to it instantly. In life, she pretended not to and then did anyway, because being told what to do by Alexia was one of her private weaknesses and everyone, tragically, knew it.
"You call me if it gets worse," Alexia said.
"I will."
"If fever gets worse."
"Yes."
"If you vomit."
"I'll send a photo."
"Jay."
"Kidding. Horrible idea. Even I heard it."
"If you feel dizzy."
"Yes."
"If the pain changes."
Jay paused, because something about that landed too close.
Alexia noticed.
"The pain has changed?" she asked.
"No. Not really. It's just... there."
"Jay."
"It's there aggressively."
Alexia's hand tightened around hers. "Then I stay."
"No." Jay squeezed back. "Ale, look at me. I'm okay. I'm uncomfortable, but I'm okay. You go. If it gets worse, I call. Promise."
Alexia studied her.
Jay held her gaze.
This was one of the things that had changed in a year. At the beginning, Alexia had known Jay was capable of charm. Of performance. Of dazzling a room into looking anywhere except the place she was bleeding. Now Alexia knew the difference between Jay hiding and Jay trying. This was not full honesty, maybe. Jay could admit that privately. But it was not a lie either. At that moment, she believed it. She believed she could sleep it off. She believed Jana's bug had simply chosen violence. She believed Alexia could go to training and return to find her dramatic but alive, ready to complain about being kiss starved.
Alexia wanted to argue.
Jay could see it in her jaw.
Instead, Alexia exhaled slowly and lifted Jay's hand to her mouth, kissing her knuckles one by one. It was not the kiss Jay wanted, but it was so tender that she stopped complaining for an entire three seconds.
Then, because she was herself, she said, "That was nice. Mouth next."
Alexia closed her eyes. "Madre mĂa."
"I'm negotiating."
"You are exhausting."
"You're obsessed with me."
"Unfortunately."
Jay smiled. "There she is."
Alexia bent and kissed Jay's forehead again, then her temple, then the bridge of her nose. Jay tried to chase her mouth, but Alexia pulled back with the reflexes of an elite midfielder avoiding a bad tackle.
"No mouth."
"You're cruel."
"I am careful."
"Cruelfully careful."
"That is not word."
"It is now."
Alexia brushed her thumb over Jay's cheek. For a second, her worry showed nakedly. It moved through her eyes, down into the line of her mouth, into the way she looked at Jay as if memorising the exact colour of her skin so she could compare it later and decide whether to panic.
Jay softened.
"Hey," she said. "I'll call you."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
"Not after waiting."
Jay hesitated.
Alexia's eyes narrowed. "Jay."
"I promise I won't wait stupidly."
"That is not same."
"It is the version my brand can support."
"Jay."
"I promise I'll call if it gets worse."
Alexia nodded once, accepting it because she had to. Then she stood, but she did it reluctantly, as if the room itself had become difficult to leave.
"Phone beside you."
Jay lifted it slightly from the duvet. "Beside me."
"Water."
"Here."
"Bowl."
"Offensive but present."
"Do not get up."
"I shall levitate."
"Jay."
"I won't get up."
"No training. No shower. No coffee."
Jay gasped. "Now you're just saying violent things."
"No coffee."
"I'm ill. Don't threaten me."
"Tea only."
"You've become drunk on power."
Alexia walked towards the door, then stopped and turned back. She came to the bed again, because of course she did, because leaving Jay was something Alexia always had to do in stages. One more touch. One more instruction. One more kiss that was not quite the kiss Jay wanted and still somehow enough to make her chest warm.
Alexia leaned down until her forehead rested lightly against Jay's.
Jay closed her eyes.
For a moment, neither of them joked.
The room held them there. Morning grey. Air conditioning hum. Alexia's breath soft against Jay's mouth but not touching. Jay's fingers curled lightly into the front of Alexia's stolen T shirt.
"I love you," Alexia whispered.
Jay's heart went stupid. "I love you too."
"You call."
"I call."
"You rest."
"I rest."
"You do not fight the stomach bug like it is opponent."
Jay opened one eye. "What if it talks shit?"
Alexia huffed a laugh and pulled away before Jay could catch her mouth. "Impossible."
"You love impossible."
"SĂ," Alexia said, and this time there was no judgement in it. Only warmth. "I do."
The front door closed a few minutes later.
Jay listened to the lock turn.
Then silence.
The apartment felt different without Alexia in it. Not empty exactly, because Alexia was everywhere even when she left. Her trainers lined neatly by the door. Her coffee mug in the drying rack. Her book face down on the side table despite insisting bookmarks existed for a reason. Her training jacket thrown over a chair because even Alexia, despite her many lectures about Jay's chaos, had flaws. Beautiful flaws. Hypocritical flaws. Flaws Jay adored and planned to weaponise during their next argument about laundry.
Jay lay under the duvet, holding her stomach.
"She left me," she whispered to the ceiling. "Beautiful woman. No mouth. Just bread and orders."
Her stomach cramped.
Hard.
Jay stopped smiling.
The pain dug in with a deeper pull this time, dragging low and sharp through her right side until she had to curl slightly around it. She breathed carefully, one hand pressing down as if she could hold the pain in place and stop it spreading.
"Okay," she muttered. "That was unnecessary."
She waited for it to pass.
It did, mostly.
But not completely.
For a while, Jay tried to sleep. Really tried. Heroically tried. She turned onto her left side, then onto her back, then regretted both decisions and settled in an awkward half curl with the duvet tangled around her legs. The room seemed warmer now despite the air conditioning. Her skin felt damp under the T shirt she had slept in. Her mouth kept drying out. Every so often the pain would settle into a dull, ugly throb and Jay would almost drift off, only for it to sharpen suddenly as if reminding her it was still present and deeply committed to being a problem.
She told herself it was Jana's bug.
Jana's stupid bug.
Jana, who had walked into the training centre yesterday pale and tragic, clutching a bottle of water like a dying poet. Jana, who had sworn she was fine and then spent twenty minutes sitting very still with the haunted expression of a woman who had seen the inside of her own soul. Jana, who had breathed the same general air as everyone else and therefore, in Jay's entirely reasonable opinion, was responsible for the current situation.
Jay reached for her phone and opened the team chat.
She typed: Jana I respect you as a teammate but your stomach has attacked my household.
She stared at it.
Alexia would somehow know.
Alexia always knew.
Jay put the phone back down and closed her eyes. The pain pulsed again, meaner now. Not unbearable, not yet, but wrong enough that it began to pull at the edges of her denial.
A stomach bug should move around, she thought.
A stomach bug should be messy and general and embarrassing. This was too specific. Too pointed. Too much like one tiny part of her body had taken offence.
She shifted, trying to reach for the water.
The moment she lifted herself even slightly, the pain flared so sharply that her breath locked.
"Fuck."
She froze halfway upright, one hand gripping the sheet, the other pressed hard into her abdomen.
The room tilted for half a second.
Jay shut her eyes until it steadied.
"Fine," she whispered through her teeth. "Fine. We are fine. Elegant. Brave. Mildly betrayed."
She drank water in tiny sips. The effort made sweat prickle at the back of her neck. By the time she put the bottle down, she felt weaker than she liked and angrier than the situation deserved.
Then she sneezed.
The pain tore through her.
Jay cried out before she could stop herself.
It was not theatrical. Not one of her usual dramatic noises, the kind she made when Alexia refused to share dessert or Lucy tackled her too hard in training and Jay decided to perform a full death scene on the grass. This sound came out raw. Shocked. Too sharp to be funny. It ripped from somewhere low in her chest and left her lying frozen on the bed, eyes wide, breath shallow.
For a second, she did not move at all.
The silence after it felt enormous.
Jay stared at the ceiling.
"Oh," she whispered. "That was bad."
For the first time, she thought seriously about calling Alexia.
Her phone sat beside her. Alexia's name was right there in favourites, pinned at the top with the photo Jay had taken of her on their sofa, Alexia glaring over the rim of a coffee mug because Jay had interrupted her reading to ask whether she would still love her if she became a worm. Alexia had said no. Then, ten seconds later, without looking up from the book, she had added, "I would build you a very nice box." Jay had nearly proposed on the spot.
Her thumb hovered over the call button.
If she called, Alexia would come.
Not later. Not after training. Immediately.
Jay could picture it with painful clarity. Alexia stopping mid drill. Alexia's whole face changing. Alexia leaving the pitch without waiting for permission because there were hierarchies in football and then there was Jay saying, baby, I need you. Eli would find out. Lucy would find out. The whole squad would find out, because football teams were not teams so much as surveillance networks with boots. Mapi would create a group chat called Stomach Watch before anyone even knew what was happening. Patri would be kind and also unbearable. Jana would deny involvement.
And if it was nothing?
If it was Jana's bug plus Jay being dramatic?
Alexia would worry for nothing.
Jay hated making Alexia worry for nothing.
She could handle Alexia being annoyed. She could handle Alexia being stern. She could handle being lectured in three languages while Alexia folded laundry with aggressive precision. But Alexia afraid because of Jay? Alexia with that quiet, hollow look? No. Jay would rather two foot her own reflection.
So she called Clara.
Clara answered on the third ring with the calm of someone who either had her life together or had become excellent at pretending.
"Jay?"
"Question."
There was a pause.
Clara said, "Why do you sound like that?"
Jay frowned. "I haven't asked the question."
"You answered several by speaking."
"That's annoying."
"Yes. Ask."
Jay swallowed. Her mouth was dry again. "Should I be getting shooting pains in my stomach when I sneeze?"
Silence.
Jay closed her eyes. "I dislike that silence."
Clara's voice changed. It did not become panicked. Clara rarely panicked audibly. It became cleaner. Sharper. "Where is the pain?"
"Stomach."
"Where exactly?"
Jay made a face. "You and Alexia do this exact same thing."
"Jay."
"Lower right. Mostly."
"Fever?"
"Maybe."
"Do you know or are you being difficult?"
"I am always being difficult, but yes, probably fever."
"Nausea?"
"A bit."
"Vomiting?"
"No."
"Can you stand?"
Jay looked towards the bedroom door.
It seemed very far away.
Possibly in another district.
"With enough national pride."
"Can you stand comfortably?"
"No."
"How long has it been like this?"
"Woke up with it. Thought it was Jana's bug."
"Has it got worse?"
Jay hesitated.
Clara heard the hesitation. Of course she did. Bossy, observant women. Jay collected them like injuries.
"How much worse?"
Jay breathed through another pulse of pain. "Started as annoying. Now if it were a defender, I'd take the red."
"Jay."
"What?"
"I need a real answer."
Jay shut her eyes. "It hurts a lot."
There was another silence, shorter this time, but heavier.
"Where is Alexia?" Clara asked.
"Training."
"Did you call her?"
"No."
"Jay."
"She'll panic."
"She loves you."
"Exactly."
Clara exhaled through her nose. Jay could hear the effort it took for her not to launch immediately into a lecture. "I am calling a nurse I trust. Then I am calling you back. Do not move."
"Oh, good. That sounds relaxed."
"Listen to me carefully. Do not get out of bed."
"I'm already in bed."
"Stay in bed."
"I don't love your tone."
"My tone is the least of your problems if you move."
Jay blinked. "That was quite dramatic for you."
"Do. Not. Move."
"Fine."
"I am serious."
"I said fine."
"Jay."
"I won't move."
Clara hung up.
Jay stared at the phone.
"Bossy women," she muttered. "Everywhere. Can't even be betrayed by an organ in peace."
She tried to settle back. Tried to breathe. Tried not to think about Clara's silence or Alexia's face if she found out Jay had called Clara instead. That would be a separate medical event. Alexia would go very quiet. Jay hated when Alexia went quiet. Quiet Alexia could make entire rooms confess.
The pain shifted.
Not much.
Just enough.
Jay frowned.
"No," she whispered. "We are not escalating."
Her body did not listen.
The next wave came hotter and deeper, radiating through her lower stomach with such force that her hand clamped down instinctively. She curled around it, breathing in quick little pulls. Sweat slid along her spine. Her vision blurred at the edges for a second, grey creeping in like fog.
Her phone rang.
Clara.
Jay saw the name light up the screen.
She reached for it.
She really did.
Later, when everyone accused her of ignoring Clara's call, Jay would defend herself with great passion and, frankly, strong evidence. She had seen the call. She had moved her hand. She had intended to answer and say something brilliant and medically unhelpful. She had been seconds away from participating in her own rescue with charm and dignity.
Then the pain changed.
It did not sharpen.
It detonated.
A white hot tearing sensation ripped through her lower abdomen so violently that her whole body locked. Air disappeared from her lungs. Her fingers clawed at the duvet. The room seemed to lurch sideways, light smearing across the ceiling, furniture bending in and out of focus as if the world had become unreliable.
Jay tried to sit up because some foolish, panicked part of her believed vertical meant control.
It did not.
The pain answered immediately, savage and blinding.
The phone slipped from her fingers and hit the floor.
Jay had one absurd thought as the room tipped away from her.
Alexia is going to be so smug about telling me not to get up.
Then the floor rose fast, and the morning went grey.
Clara Esteve did not panic.
That was important.
It was also, at that exact moment, a lie she was telling herself with impressive professional commitment.
She had spent years building a life around control. Not the brittle kind, not the sort that shattered the moment a situation became messy, but the deliberate kind. The useful kind. Clara believed in facts, in sequence, in knowing which problem came first and which could be left to bleed quietly in a corner until the urgent thing was handled. She believed in names, dates, documents, signatures, carefully worded emails, emergency contacts updated before anyone needed them, and the deep holy power of a person who could remain calm while everyone else lost their minds and started making the situation about their own emotional weather.
So she did not panic when Jay's call ended.
She sat very still at her kitchen table, phone in her hand, the morning light falling cleanly across the open folder beside her laptop, and she placed Jay's symptoms in order the way she would place evidence in a file.
Lower right abdominal pain.
Fever.
Nausea.
Pain worsening.
Pain with movement.
Pain sharp enough to make Jay Jones, a woman who had once finished forty minutes of a match with a cracked rib and described it afterwards as "spicy breathing", call someone and ask a medical question in a voice that sounded too careful.
Clara's hand tightened around the phone.
She did not think of Jay joking in the hospital after that cracked rib, pale around the mouth and still asking whether the scan would show her "inner beauty". She did not think of Jay at nineteen, furious and terrified and pretending not to be either, sitting in Julia's office with a split lip and a contract in front of her like the whole world was just another person trying to catch her out. She did not think of all the times Jay had made pain funny because funny was safer than needing people.
She called the nurse she trusted.
Facts only.
"Twenty nine year old female. Professional footballer. Lower right abdominal pain since waking. Fever, likely. Nausea. Pain worsening over the morning. Sharp pain when sneezing. Struggling to stand comfortably. High pain tolerance. Initially thought stomach bug exposure from teammate."
Her friend did not indulge the carefulness. She cut through it at once.
"Possible appendicitis. With that location and worsening pain, she needs emergency care now. If it's severe with movement, don't wait. If it ruptures, she'll need surgery and antibiotics. Get her seen."
The words landed with the weight of something Clara had already known but had been trying not to name.
Possible appendicitis.
Rupture.
Surgery.
Jay alone in the apartment because Alexia was at training and Jay, in all her brilliant idiotic loyalty, had decided not to call the person who loved her most.
Clara thanked her, hung up, and immediately called Jay back.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Clara stood up before the fourth ring.
By the time the call ended unanswered, her chair had scraped back across the tile and hit the cabinet behind her.
She called again.
Nothing.
The silence became its own kind of sound, thick and awful and entirely unlike Jay. Jay was never silent in a crisis unless something had gone properly wrong. If she was fine, she answered with a joke. If she was scared, she answered with a worse joke. If she was in pain, she answered with a joke so elaborate and inappropriate that Clara usually had to put her on speaker so Julia could hear it and suffer too. Jay could be evasive, infuriating, dramatic, reckless, affectionate, impossible, tender, and occasionally so charming Clara wanted to strangle her on principle, but she was not quiet.
Not like this.
"Oh, Jay," Clara whispered.
Then she called Julia.
Julia answered on the second ring with no greeting, only the exhausted sharpness of a woman who had already been forced to argue with three people before breakfast and was prepared to make it everyone's problem.
"If this is about the sponsor approval, I swear to God, Clara, I'm going to forward them all a picture of a brick wall and ask them to negotiate with that instead."
"Go to Jay and Alexia's now."
There was a silence.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Julia knew Clara's voice too well.
"What happened?"
"Possible appendicitis. Jay called me. Lower right abdominal pain, fever, pain worse with movement, shooting pain when sneezing. I spoke to a nurse. She needs emergency care. I called her back and she isn't answering."
Clara heard Julia move immediately. Chair legs. Keys. A drawer opened too hard. The soft thump of a handbag being snatched from somewhere. Julia did not ask whether Clara was sure. She did not waste time making Clara defend the concern. That was why they worked as well as they did. They could argue for forty five minutes over contract wording, but when Jay was in trouble, the whole world became very simple.
"Where's Alexia?"
"Training."
"Jay didn't call her."
"No."
"Of course she didn't," Julia said, and the fury in her voice was instant, low, controlled, not because she was angry at Clara and not even fully because she was angry at Jay. It was older than that. Protective anger. Familiar anger. The kind that came from knowing someone so well you could predict their worst instinct and still be wounded by it every time. "She'd rather pass out under furniture than inconvenience someone she loves."
"She promised she was in bed."
"She lies when she's scared."
"I know."
"I'm ten minutes away. Less if every traffic light in Barcelona values its life."
"Julia."
"I know. No crashing. I'll call an ambulance if she doesn't answer the door."
"You have the emergency key."
"Yes."
"If she answers before you get there, I'll update you."
"And Alexia?"
Clara looked towards the window, where the street outside looked absurdly normal. A delivery van reversing. A woman walking a dog. Someone laughing into a phone. The world always had the nerve to continue during emergencies, which Clara found personally offensive.
"Not yet," she said carefully. "If we call her with no information, she'll leave training with only fear. Get eyes on Jay. Then we tell her properly.
Julia was quiet for a fraction of a second. "Fine. But we do not protect Alexia by keeping her ignorant for long."
"No."
"And if Jay asked us not to scare her?"
"She did."
"Of course she did," Julia muttered. "I love her, but I am going to wrap her in bubble wrap and put her in a locked cupboard."
"She'd find a way out."
"She would flirt with the lock."
"She would."
That almost laugh between them lasted less than a second. Then it was gone, swallowed by urgency.
summary: alexia had all and then most of you. some, and now none of you. ...or does she?
~ 2.2k
warning: alexia leaving barça (i guess that's a warning?), just angst
a/n: this is something different that popped into my head that i wanted to try out. it's more angsty than i usually write. there will probably be more parts coming, i think. i just wanted to see how you all think about it.
when alexia finally came home, everything was quiet. she stood in the hallway for a while, justâŚbreathing. it was dark, she didnât bother to turn on the light. her bag hung heavy from her shoulder, filled with gifts and letters from fans, teammates, staff. her people.
alexia was truly alone for the first time. it was such a stark difference to the last few days. sheâd surrounded herself with family, she needed them with her. her sister, her mami, her uncle, her friends. they were all there for her, supporting her, distracting her, trying to cheer her up.
all because sheâd just made the hardest decision sheâd ever had to make in her life. not one she thought sheâd have to ever make, or one she thought she would choose. yet, it happened. no matter how much it had hurt her heart. it had slowly ripped apart, a piece of her forever left here in barcelona.
she hadnât thought she could ever leave barça. it was her club, her dream, her home. sheâd lived a thousand lifetimes, experienced the highest of highs, gone through the lowest of lows. the perfect story. butâŚwell. all good things must come to an end one day, didnât they?
that was just how things were. alexia had tried to learn to live with that. it had taken a lot of time. many, many nights of crying her eyes out, second-guessing everything. now, there were no tears left to cry. sheâd left them in camp nou, in the johan cruyff, with the people that were most dear to her.
alexia was tired of it. the crying, the constant sadness following her. she didnât want to be sad anymore. it was exhausting. expected, but exhausting. irene had told her she should see it as a privilege. proof of the love she carried for this club and these people.
alexia had quietly listened to her friend, but she wasnât sure she could see it as such yet. she struggled to accept, to believe, the words of others. there were many, kind and well-intentioned, but they didnât really reach her. not yet. it was all just different words with the same meaning.
for now, they all sounded wrong to her ears. orâŚwell, their voices did. everyone said something, but not the two people alexia wanted to hear from the most. they stayed silent. one, forever, who had left this life too early. the otherâŚ
the other, was you. once, one of the most important people in alexiaâs life. now, nothing more than a ghost. though a ghost she saw everywhere, in everything. it ruined her life; it left a small but persistent flame of hope in her heart.
alexia had thought of calling you a hundred times. during her weaker moments, usually at night. she still knew your number by heart. although, she didnât know if it was still yours.
sometimes, alexia thought she should just do it. in the hopes that it wouldnât be you picking up the phone, just so that this last link between you would be lost.
she should, but couldnât do it. alexia didnât dare. maybe that was cowardly, or stupid. or both. she didnât care anymore. it was the last thing she had of you. sure, that hoodie alexia had stuffed into the back of her closet, never to be seen again but there, that shirt next to it, had been yours once, but it had long lost your scent.
maybe if she had thrown them away, the flicker of hope would have never been there in the first place. everything would be so much easier if there wasnât that lingering hope. it burned in her chest. sometimes brighter. sometimes not so much.
these last few days, it had been brighter than ever. and alexia was weak. sheâd typed the numbers into her phone, one by one. had stared at them, thumb hovering over the call button. had deleted them again. she was just so desperate to hear your voice again. to be comforted by your words. she was pathetic.
with a sigh, alexia let the bag drop to the floor. god, she needed- alexia couldnât believe she was even thinking itâŚshe needed something to drink. it was a no-go during the season, butâŚreally, sheâd earned it. her last game (ever) had been today anyway. if not to celebrate, then to commiserate.
alexia left her shoes carelessly thrown in the middle of the hallway, the jacket on the hanger. she walked into her kitchen, greeted by the same silence. nothing had changed. the fruit bowl still sat in the middle of the island, a sorry amount of wrinkled apples inside. a mug sheâd forgotten to put away that morning rested beside it. the digital clock on the oven glowed faintly in the darkness, one of the few light sources inside the house.
alexia didnât bother turning any others on. she knew this house like the back of her hand. with heavy feet, alexia crossed the room and opened the cupboard under the sink. tucked away in the back, there was a bottle of red wine someone had gifted her on her birthday.
she couldnât remember who, but it wasnât someone that knew her that well or that she knew that well. someone related to barça, probably. alexia stared at the label with squinted eyes.
vega-sicilia unico.
it had sounded expensive when she got it. it sounded expensive now. it lookedâŚwell, it had looked like any other red wine, if alexia was honest. but she remembered thinking she would save it for a special occasion. thatâs what it had seemed like it was for.
heartbreak was a special occasion, wasnât it? nothing like an expensive bottle of wine to drown oneâs sorrows.
it took her four attempts to get the cork out of the bottle, the pop echoing through the silence of the house. alexia stood there for a moment, bottle in one hand, cork in the other. the smell drifted out immediately. it smelled rich, fruity, âŚexpensive. that was about as much as alexia knew about wine.
alexia looked around. there was no wine glass in sight. obviously. not because she didnât own any. she had them. somewhere. alexia couldnât be bothered to look for one. the empty mug next to the fruit bowl would have to do.
dark red liquid splashed against the ceramic as she poured far more than she intended. it sloshed dangerously close to the rim, but she didnât care enough to wipe away the few drops that had landed on the island top.
alexia raised the mug to her lips. âcheers.â, she said into the empty room, taking her first sip. cheers to the day i said goodbye to everything iâve ever known. cheers to everyone iâve lost along the way.
it couldâve been the best wine alexia had ever tried. it couldâve been terrible. she didnât really taste it. this was only a means to an end. only there to take the edge off. to make her tired, so she could sleep in peace, without a million thoughts that kept her awake.
alexia took another sip. and another. and another. until the mug was almost empty. nothing changed. not yet, anyway. âpathetic.â, she muttered. the words disappeared into the silence. in the past, there would have been a reply, coming from the sweetest lips sheâd ever tasted.âdonât talk like that. please stop being so mean to yourself, ale.â now, no one was there to tell her any different. that was even worse. alexia filled up the mug again.
she wandered into the living room, mug gripped tightly in her hand, careful not to spill anything. the way to the balcony was short, and illuminated only by the glow of the street lights outside.
the warm summer air had cooled considerably, raising goosebumps on her skin. alexia shivered and wrapped her free arm around herself. she looked out over barcelona.
the city was awake as ever. cars crawled through the streets below. someone laughed in the distance. a scooter sped past, disappearing into the night.
a sad smile spread on her lips, tears gathered in her eyes again. this city was familiar in every way. she knew these streets. had walked them since she was a child. she knew these people. she knew where to get the best coffee, the best food. she knew the best hideaway spots. she knew the best spots to kiss you as the sun set. she knew everything.
soon, this wouldnât be hers anymore. not really. home would become somewhere else. her chest tightened at the thought. not because she didnât think she could learn to love another place. but this one had loved her first.
it had watched her grow up into the woman she was now. it had witnessed her first love and every other that came after until sheâd found her one. it had witnessed your first meeting. you being friends, then falling in love years later. it had seen your (almost) perfect love story.
and it had watched the two of you fuck up so badly that you had lost each other in the end. it had watched her cry for you. it had watched her try again and again to forget about you.
a shaky breath left her lips. a single tear rolled down her cheek before she wiped it away. she didnât know why she was sad anymore. was it because she was leaving barcelona? was it because she still missed you so much it hurt?
she looked down at the wine. it had done absolutely nothing to help. if anything, it had only silenced the part of her brain that usually knew better. because sheâd never thought about you as much as she did at this moment. not since that day in march.
alexia put the near empty mug on the table in front of her and fell into one of the balcony chairs. a warm breeze stirred her hair, tickling her nose in the process.
alexia wondered if you were awake.
the thought came suddenly. involuntary. but she couldnât stop thinking about you. with that thought came many others. she wondered where you were. if you still had that apartment. if you were still here. it would break her heart even further if you were. if you had forgotten. if you missed her as much as she missed you.
alexia fished her phone out of her pocket on autopilot. not even an hour and she seemed to have arrived back at this point again. its weight settled familiarly in her palm. the screen lit up immediately, almost blinding. alexia stared until it went dark again. it wouldnât hurt, would it? it was only for her, it would never reach you.
she unlocked it, didnât look at any of the thousands of notifications, wishing her the best for what came after. her thumb had typed your number before she even realized. alexia hated that she still knew it. sheâd spent years trying to forget, but some things refused to leave you.
she stared at the familiar digits, willing herself not to do it. it was the same every time. her hands shook, thatâs how much effort it took. just so she wouldnât press that damn button. no. she couldnât. it wouldnât be fair. not to you. not to herself. you had moved on, surely. you deserved to have moved on. alexia shouldnât, wouldnât, reopen old wounds.
no, she wouldnât do it. alexia would delete the number. again. forget about it. leave. go to bed. cry, probably. but she wouldnât call.
alexia sighed. good. sheâd done it. again. that sorry excuse of a routine. this was as brave as she got. it didnât make her feel better, but it was the only way she survived the pain. because she told herself sheâd done something about it. her thumb moved, ready to delete the number once more.
âpedri!â a shout erupted from somewhere down below. it was followed by a round of drunken laughter that traveled through the silence. alexia startled, her eyes snapped up to look at the streets. just a second. it was only a moment. nothing should have happened in that time. she hadnât moved. when she looked down at her phone again, she paled.
callingâŚ
alexia froze, every little bit of tipsiness gone in an instant. ânoâŚâ her voice barely came out as more than a breath. âno, no, no,...â
she stared at the screen in horror, watched as it tried to connect the call. she should hang up, there was still time. she wanted to. her body just wouldnât cooperate with her brain. her thumb didnât move. she couldnât do anything. why couldnât she do anything?
her pulse thundered in her ears. there was a ring. a second one. please donât pick up. please pick up. her brain was at war with her heart. she wasnât sure which one was louder. a third ring. alexia held her breath.
you were asleep. you didnât know her number, you wouldnât pick up the phone. no, she knew you. if the number wasnât saved in your contacts, you wouldnât pick up. you waited until it ended and then searched the number on the internet. thatâs who you were.
a quiet click sounded through the speaker. â...ale?â
Spin the wheel again. Thatâs whoâs trying to protect you.
(If you have zero idea about a name you got, spin until you see someone you recognize.)
Are you safe?
Absolutely not. I'm dead. 100% dead.
I might stay alive, but it'll be a really close thing.
I'll take some hits, for certain, but I should be okay in the end.
A few attacks might get through, but nothing concerning.
The attacker might be able to get in one lucky hit. If that.
I am the opposite of worried. I'm 100% safe.
âŚLook. I've tried picturing this. But I honestly don't know how to answer.
Voting ended onJul 14
(I've run this poll twice before, expanding it significantly for the second run. With about a year passed since that second run, I thought it was time to add another couple hundred names to the list and have another go.)
